


Steal Into My Melancholy Heart

by fustianriddles



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: (Oh my god they were roommates...), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, How many tropes can I fit into one fic?, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Suicide Attempt, Sharing a Bed, Slow Build, Slow Burn, The answer may surprise you., You have covid-19 to thank for this fic, and they were roommates!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:07:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 53,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23442175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fustianriddles/pseuds/fustianriddles
Summary: Anders,The mage underground has informed me that the Gallows intend on punishing Adelaide with the brand. I know you will find it foolish but I owe her a life debt, and if sailing to Kirkwall and breaking her chains settles that debt then so be it. Be angry with me if you must, but you are not the only man with a spirit of justice inside of him. If all goes well, I will be home at the end of Justinian, if not, don’t come after me. You have done enough rescuing in your lifetime. You are doing good work in the clinic, do not let that go to waste for one old man.Love,KarlJustice - Let him eat, let him sleep. He is only human after all.***Anders managed to free Karl from the Gallows. They fled to Tevinter and established a free clinic in the Liberati slums of Minrathous. He healed the poor and enslaved, while Karl became involved with the mage underground in Kirkwall, wanting to free his fellow mages. After Karl goes missing, Anders' only hope is to turn to Danarius for aid. A favor owed to a magister is deadly indeed. But for Karl, a favor is a small thing to ask for.
Relationships: Anders/Fenris (Dragon Age), Anders/Karl Thekla (Past), Fenris/Anders
Comments: 45
Kudos: 80





	1. Days In The Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders waits for Karl. He doesn't return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!  
> My name is Kai and welcome to this haberdashery of misused words and sentences that I have somehow stitched together to form this first chapter. Everything you are about to see has not been beta-read, so prepare for disaster and rambling in your future. (However, I am looking for a beta-reader if anyone is interested!) So, sit back, relax and enjoy this little reprieve from quarantine.

Karl’s note lay crumpled at the bottom of Anders’ pocket. Every so often, he would remove the offending ball of parchment, and smooth out the wrinkles. Then he would reread the message, only for it to be crushed and shoved back into his feathered coat. Now was one of those times. Night had long descended upon his ramshackle clinic in the southwestern corner of Minrathous’ Liberati slum. With the clinic empty, it was even harder to ignore the letter burning a hole in his pocket. With a frustrated huff, he finally succumbed to the temptation and retrieved the wrinkled parchment, laying it flat on his desk. He smoothed out the creases his own hands inflicted on the paper but the note still resembled a sheet of old cracked leather.

_Anders,_

His eyes traced over the letters in his name. Karl’s handwriting was elegant, filled with the loops and unnecessary flourishes that accompanied years spent crouched over a book. In the Circle, Karl would stay off his boredom by teaching himself calligraphy. Anders preferred to entertain himself by hiding under Karl’s desk, playing his own little game. But, that was long ago.

_Anders,_

_The mage underground has informed me that the Gallows intend on punishing Adelaide with the brand. I know you will find it foolish but I owe her a life debt, and if sailing to Kirkwall and breaking her chains settles that debt then so be it. Be angry with me if you must, but you are not the only man with a spirit of justice inside of him. If all goes well, I will be home at the end of Justinian, if not, don’t come after me. You have done enough rescuing in your lifetime. You are doing good work in the clinic, do not let that go to waste for one old man._

_Love,_

_Karl_

At the bottom of the page, in remarkably tiny print was a post note.

_Justice - Let him eat, let him sleep. He is only human after all._

Anders wanted to rip the letter to shreds and throw a fireball for good measure. Instead, he crumpled the parchment into a little ball and shoved it out of sight, and hopefully out of mind. Although, he knew it never was.

Justinian came and went, and the first week of Solace brought a sweltering wave of heat, but no Karl. It had been a year since Anders liberated Karl from the Gallows and fled to Tevinter. However, past experience had proved to him that Templars don’t forgive or forget the face of an escaped mage that easily. Anders was pissed, and rightfully so. Not only was Karl putting himself in extreme danger by returning to Kirkwall as a wanted man, but there was the additional factor that Anders wasn’t included in this attempt. A part of him- an old part of him, long before he merged with Justice, was jealous. Karl was using _his_ contacts. _He_ was the one who helped develop the mage underground into the thriving resistance it was today. _He_ should be the one freeing his fellow mages back in Kirkwall. He shoved his bitter thoughts deep down, just like he did with Karl’s letter.

Anders ran a hand through his messy hair, freeing the locks from the leather thong that tied it back. Parts of it were tangled with the residue of blood and lyrium. Maker, he needed a bath. Not just a cold bucket of water and a rag, but a real tub with dwarven plumbing. He slumped down into the rickety wicker chair at his desk. His body was heavy, a rock slowly sinking through thick water. His mind, however, was as tumultuous as a sea storm. He was so tired. He always was these days. But neither his thoughts nor his passenger would give him a moment's rest. He grabbed a fresh sheet of parchment, set aside his wandering mind and focused on the steady beat of Justice humming through his blood. One more hour. One more page. This was right. This was just. 

* * *

The clinic door had barely creaked open, the old hinges wailing in protest before Anders was jolted awake by the sound. In another life, before he merged with Justice, Anders was a heavy sleeper. He often found himself in similar situations to the cats he loved, pampering himself with long naps and sleeping in odd places. He could fall asleep anywhere. Once he passed out on the top of the bookshelves when playing hide and seek with the other apprentices. Although he didn’t sleep as heavily as he once did, his ability to fall asleep on any surface remained, resulting in a lot of long nights sprawled out on his desk. Drool stains were surely warping the wood at this point. On reflex, Anders leaped to his feet, jostling the desk in his hurry. Ice shot through his veins and settled deep into his bones. The templars- they finally found him. Lunging for his staff, his mind spiraled in a panic, searching for the perfect spell in this situation. A cone of cold to freeze them and quickly make his escape? Or would it be wiser to call lighting down upon them in a tempest, to take down as many templars as possible before he was either captured or killed? 

“You know, only a truly idiotic man would leave his doors unlocked for any rebel slave and Liberati scum to rob him blind and murder him in his sleep.” 

Of course. He was in Tevinter now. He never had to fear capture again. Instead, he got to deal with a different kind of evil. He blinked away the blurry film of sleep that had settled over his eyes before training his sight on the intruder. She hadn’t changed much from her last visit. She had the same black hair brushing her shoulders and thin arched eyebrows, never moving, never giving a hint of the true emotions behind her mask. Her dark lips were often pulled taught by a sneer or a thin haunting smile stretched wide across her face. And then there were her eyes. He had never before seen eyes so blue or so unsettling. 

“Hadriana. I would say that it is a pleasure to see you but I don’t have the energy to lie through my teeth.” He tried to stifle a yawn. Of all the bad luck he could have encountered today, and it just _had_ to be a wake-up call by Danarius’ charming apprentice. Lovely.

“I wish I could say the pleasure is all mine but unfortunately it seems that you haven’t been killed yet.” 

“I have nothing to fear from them,” Anders said. “They respect me and the work I do.” 

“As they should respect a mage. Even one of your status.”

He fought back another yawn. “Why are you here Hadriana? Need healing? You’ll have to pay for it you know. But, because I’m feeling generous I’ll give you the pain in my ass discount.”

“As if I would accept healing from you,” she scoffed and placed a fist-sized item wrapped in fine colorful paper on his desk. “A gift from Danarius. Since you keep on avoiding his other messengers, he thought he would send someone a little more difficult to ignore.” 

“I can not accept this.”

She stalked towards him. “You can, and you will. As Danarius’ apprentice, I am his equal and I will not become a courier to satisfy his foolish fascination with you. The next time he sends a slave with whatever trinket he intends to woo you with, you will accept it.”

“I think not.”

“I think you will.” She ran the tips of her fingers along the edge of Anders’ desk. Maybe the Maker would turn his luck around and she would get a nasty splinter. 

“You see Anders... Do you know what happens to a slave who fails to complete an order?” Her fingertips skated across the smooth glass rim of an inkwell, before sliding it off the table. The little bottle smashed into the dirt floor, the ink almost immediately getting absorbed by the dusty ground. “They get broken.”

Anders grit his teeth together, fighting the pounding drums of Justice thrumming in his head. Not here. Not now.

“Please inform Danarius that I am flattered by his thoughtful gift.”

“I will be sure to pass along the message.” 

“Wonderful. Now, leave.” Anders turned away and kneeled in front of his desk, carefully picking up the shards of glass. “Fucking waste of ink.” 

There were no receding footsteps, no slamming of the clinic door. Hadriana just stood there and chuckled. She always had to have the last word. He looked up at her, preparing a snarky comment before his eyes fell on a sheet of wrinkled paper, held between her dainty fingers. 

“You drop the most interesting things.”

Anders rose to his feet and snatched Karl’s letter out of her hands. 

“Leave,” the word was venom on his lips and for a brief moment, a blue light glistened in his eyes. Hadriana looked at him thoughtfully before giving him a sickly-sweet grin. 

“Until next time Anders.” She turned on her heel and exited the clinic, the wide grin never leaving her face. Danarius was going to be very pleased with her information.

Anders folded Karl’s letter and returned it to the safety of his pocket. His eyes fell on the small parcel on his desk. He had half a mind to chuck it into the gutter. He resisted the temptation. Danarius had gifted him useful things in the past, and anything ridiculously extravagant he had been able to sell to keep his clinic open. He might as well let Danarius’ infatuation fund the clinic that healed his own slaves. Anders tore into the paper. Inside was a small bottle, similar in shape to a potion bottle, but the neck was covered in an elegant spiral ribbing. He removed the cork and sniffed the mixture cautiously. The strong scent of spices and incense assaulted his senses. He coughed and quickly corked the cologne. Surely this was a favorite of the magisters but it was much too strong for Anders’ tastes. It might fetch a good price on the market though. Expensive perfume was expensive perfume, no matter how bad it smelled. 

He took the bottle and placed it on the shelf with the rest of his stock of potions. The wrapping paper he set within the logs of the hearth as kindling. With one snap of his fingers, the bright paper curled and blackened under the flame. And then his ritual began. 

He started his days by cooking a large batch of bland porridge, attempting to add flavor with whatever he happened to get his hands on that morning, whether it be cinnamon, apples, or honey. While it was cooking, he would light the lantern and tend to any early patients in need of healing. As the sun rose higher in the sky, his assistants would take over the distribution of the porridge to his patients and those who were lucky enough to be relatively healthy if it weren’t for that pesky case of malnutrition. While they ate, Anders did what he did best. He took away pain and took away fear. He closed wounds and opened new ones, fixing what needed to be fixed. He brought new life into the world, and he laid life to rest. He healed his patients until magic failed him, and then he resorted to good old fashioned elfroot. 

Here he was useful. Here he gave peace and strength to those who left the walls of his clinic ready to face a new wave of injustice by the hour, for that was the life of his patients. Poor Liberati who sometimes were worse off than their enslaved counterparts. They were free, but their bellies were empty and their bodies were broken. The slaves themselves had enough to eat- barely. A starving slave meant a weak slave and the work they had was not made for weak bodies. However, their minds were not their own, their bodies not their own, and their children were not their own. So, Anders helped. But it wasn’t enough. Never would be enough.

At nightfall, the steady stream of injured had slowed to a trickle. He had long exhausted his mana, and the amount of lyrium in his system had reached dangerous levels. It seemed the last patient of the night was a quiet red-headed elf, with her head bowed and eyes fluttering beneath her lashes. Her hands were outstretched before her covered in angry red marks, bubbling over her skin. He gently examined her hands, being careful not to hurt her, but she seemed experienced in holding back any sign of pain. 

“What happened?” He asked.

“I was in the kitchens.” she mumbled, “My master wanted to eat something different, but I had never made it before. I was nervous so I spilled hot oil on myself.” 

“I’m not going to lie," he sighed. "These are some serious burns, you will most likely have scarring and possibly permanent damage to your sense of touch.” Anders stood and began sorting through his vials of potions and poultices. He grabbed two containers, one filled with a dark blue liquid, the other a small tin of cream with a yellow tint. 

“Open wide.” 

The elvhen girl did as he asked and he placed three drops of the blue liquid under her tongue. When finished, she made a face.

“Disgusting, I know. But what it lacks in taste, it makes up for its fast-acting pain relief. Take three drops under the tongue, once when you wake and once before going to bed. Don’t take more than that. I know it can be tempting, especially when it begins to wear off, or if… other accidents happen. But too much of this stuff can paralyze you. So be careful.” 

He removed the lid from the cream tin and began gently applying a thin layer to her left hand. 

“It may not look like much but a little goes a long way. Do this once every night and keep them bandaged. If any blisters start to form, don’t try to pop them, let them get rid of themselves. If one gets too big or painful that it is preventing you from doing day to day tasks, come here and I can take care of it for you. Normally I’d suggest abstaining from any work but… well…” Anders gave her a sad smile, “Just be as gentle as you can.” 

With a thin roll of cloth, he finished bandaging her left hand, before switching his attention to her right.

“Healer… um… where is the bearded man who worked here?”

Anders frowned. “Karl? Why do you want to know about Karl?”

“Oh... he was the one who told me how to find the clinic if I ever needed it. I wanted to thank him.” 

“Ah well,” He shrugged. “He has temporarily left the country.” 

“I heard the two of you were close.” 

He stopped applying the salve and looked into her eyes. Once they made contact, she cast her gaze downward.

“Who told you that?”

“Friends of mine. They came here after an… accident a few weeks ago.” 

He scoffed. “Probably heard it from my assistants. They love to gossip when they think I’m not listening. Karl is a good man and a good friend. Nothing more.”

“When will he return?”

“I... don't know. But I will give him your thanks once he comes home.” He tied off the bandage and gave her arm a pat. “Alright, it looks like you are all good to go.”

“Thank you, Healer.” She hopped off the cot and Anders gently placed the vial and tin into her outstretched hands.

“Be safe on your walk back.”

“I will.” She gave him a shy smile over her shoulder before exiting the clinic. The door closed and locked behind her. She walked a practiced path, eyes down, shoulders bent, weaving through shacks and alleys. She ducked into a particularly narrow pathway between two buildings. Once out of sight, her posture instantly changed. She set her shoulders back and lifted her chin. Magic swirled from her fingertips, encasing her hand in a twisting blue light. Her skin was as clear and whole as it was a few hours earlier before Danarius set his plot into motion. She removed the bandages and dropped them into the gutter along with the medicine Anders gave her. Varania gathered her courage. It was time to see Danarius.

* * *

The silence of Anders’ mind disappeared as soon as he locked the door. With the clinic closed for the night, he had nothing to distract him from his thoughts. Well… not just _his_ thoughts.

**You should honor his wishes.**

“Yeah well, where the hell was he honoring my wish of not putting himself in danger!?” Anders walked a practiced path around the abandoned cots, picking up discarded bandages covered in all sorts of bodily fluids. 

**He is free to make his choice.**

He threw the heap of bandages into a wooden bucket with such force that it nearly toppled over. “I can make my own damn choice too.”

**I did not mean to insinuate that you are not also free. We have worked hard to make it so. However, there is work to be done here, Anders.**

“I can’t just sit here and wait helplessly for Karl to return when Maker knows what could be happening to him right now. I didn’t go through hell to save him, just to lose him again!”

**Even if we had the funds to travel to Kirkwall, which we do not, the people here need our help. Who will heal the slaves of this city if not you? Many may die in our absence.**

“Don’t pull that crap on me. Don’t use my bleeding heart on me. It’s fucking manipulative and you know it.”

**I do not manipulate. I speak only the truth. Without your healing, some may die. The people here have come to rely on you.**

“It’s not like I’m abandoning them. My assistants can run the clinic in my absence and I’ll be back within the fortnight.” 

**You are stubborn, and your mind is set, but you lack the coin.**

Anders loathed to admit the one flaw in his plan - he was dirt poor. At the moment he only had fifty-four coppers stashed around in the clinic, and that was a good week for him. He remembered the few months he spent in Kirkwall waiting for the right moment to sneak Karl out of the Gallows. The plan was reckless and expensive, so he saved whatever he could, barely sparing enough coin for the necessities. He scraped by on what few coppers he could get, often going days without eating, unable to manage the three coppers for a full meal. 

If he took the same route he used to get Karl north, he could arrive in Kirkwall in nearly twelve days- but it would cost at least one sovereign and eight silver for the trip there and back, coin that he couldn’t afford to spend, even if he had it. No one he knew had that much coin to burn except… Andraste’s saggy tits, of course! The night was still young. If he was quick, his plan might just work. 

Anders frantically ran across the clinic, grabbing a bucket, a rag that wasn’t covered in blood, and a rough lye soap that burned the dirt from his skin. He cleaned himself quickly, but thoroughly, not even stopping to heat the chilly water. He combed and braided his hair, it was by no means elegant, but it looked much more kempt in this style. Deep in the recesses of an old chest, in the quartered off corner he liked to call his room, Anders pulled out a set of deep green robes. They were probably the cheapest gift given to him by Danarius, one of the few he actually allowed himself to indulge in. He never intended on actually wearing it, but he rather liked the color and thought that once his old feathered coat needed repairing again, green patches would look nice.

Anders dressed and tried to get a good glimpse of his appearance in the cracked mirror he had hanging on the wall. There were many words that could be used to describe the robes, modest was not one of them. The fabric clung to his chest and waist leaving his freckled shoulders bare while the deep neckline nearly revealed his nipples. It definitely would have if he hadn’t sold his gold piercings for passage to Tevinter. Frankly, he looked good. Not as handsome as he would have been a few years ago when his body was toned with muscles from regular fights with Darkspawn. He was rather skinny now. He sighed and trailed a hand over his hips and the bones that protruded from them. Too skinny. 

Returning to the chest, he found a stump of kohl and a tiny pot of rouge. Most of which had been used up during his days at the Pearl, but there would be enough left for this misadventure. 

**I do not understand. Why is this important?**

“Because men can get generous around a pretty face. And we want Danarius to be very, very generous.” He finished applying the makeup, taking a moment to admire how the dark lids made his eyes pop. He had forgotten how much he missed dressing up. You could put the spirit of Justice in a man but you couldn’t take away his vanity. He shook the thought from his head, he didn’t have time for such silly things anymore. Anders grabbed his staff and headed for the door, only stopping when another thought hit him. He turned on his heel, searching the potion rack for the little elegant bottle. He removed the cork, the strong scent of spices and incense being released. He dabbed the perfume onto his wrists and neck, wrinkling his nose at the strong smell. He would just have to live with it. He took a deep breath, it was time.

* * *

The sweltering heat kept Danarius from stepping foot outside his mansion. He had no desire to condemn himself to Minrathous’ unforgiving summers. It seemed that he wasn’t the only magister who held this same belief. However, the benefits of his high status had persuaded his peers to ford the heat and make the trip to his estate, where Danarius remained in cool comfort. Upon nightfall, he found refuge in his study, flipping through the pages of a particularly interesting tome on possession. His apprentices had given him some very enlightening information about a certain healer. The more he learned, the more intrigued he became. Danarius had always loved curiosities. Soon he would add one more to his collection. 

There was a knock at the door. Precise. Methodic. 

“Enter.”

One of his slaves, an elderly elf with greying hair, quietly entered the room. He bowed his head respectfully and waited. 

Danarius returned to perusing the tome, “You may speak.”

“There is a man named Anders here to see you.” 

His hand stilled halfway through turning the page. Well, this was an interesting development. 

“Show him in.”

“Yes, Master.” The elf bowed, with some difficulty due to his age, but with the practice of a man who spent half his life bent at the waist. 

Danarius straightened his robes and returned to the book he was reading. Moments later he heard footsteps echoing through the hallway before there was another knock at his door.

“Enter.” He kept his eyes focused on the passage he was reading. The door creaked open. 

“Danarius.”

He looked up from the book, his eyes landing on a very different man than he was expecting. Gone were the rags he usually wore, instead Danarius was greeted by a man that resembled a consort rather than a half-starved healer. A very interesting development indeed. 

“Anders, what a wonderful surprise. Come, sit.” He stood and gestured at one of the plush armchairs seated near the fireplace. He turned to the old elf. “Dismissed.”

“Yes, Master.” He bowed again and quickly departed. 

Anders wrinkled his nose at the term but smoothed his features back into what he hoped was coy as he sat in the armchair. 

Danarius joined him in the chair to his right. “Do you drink?”

“Yes”

**No.**

“Anything in particular?”

“Surprise me.” Anders licked his lips and sank further into the armchair, crossing his legs. Maker, it was comfortable. If he wasn’t careful, he might pass out. 

“Octavia, fetch a bottle of Aggregio Pavali. The slaves in the kitchen can direct you where to find it.”

A young elvhen woman stepped out from the corner of the study. Anders started in surprise, not noticing her presence when he first entered. She was a tiny thing, with long black hair and dark eyes. 

“Yes, Master.” She bowed and quickly retreated from the room.

Danarius’ gaze followed her, long after she left his sight. “Beautiful, isn’t she?”

“Yes, she is.”

“I just acquired her this afternoon. She was a belated gift from the Donicas. The eighth child of their favored breeding pair”

“Ah, I see.” Anders dug his nails into his palms, using the pain to reign in his temper. To think he was talking about the poor girl’s parents like they were purebred mabaris. It was vile. 

“I haven’t quite decided what her purpose in my household would be just yet- but I’m sure she will make herself useful. Perhaps I could loan her to the pleasure houses- but she would need a more refined skill set.” Danarius smiled at the blonde’s discomfort. He relished in making him squirm. “I’m told that you, yourself have experience in that profession. Perhaps we could come to some arrangement for her training. I, for one, would be interested in witnessing your talents.”

Anders plastered on a smile. It was far too wide, more like a snarl than the seductive grin he was shooting for. “Unfortunately I have left that professional life behind me. I am more suited for a personal approach.”

“I don’t doubt that.” Danarius’ eyes flickered across his exposed chest, drinking in the firelight that glinted off the sweat dripping down his collarbones. “But what brings you here tonight Anders? This is certainly a first. Have you thought on my proposal?”

“I have. I’m flattered that someone as… brilliant as you can see something in someone like me. But, I don’t do relationships anymore.”

“I wouldn’t call it a relationship. Arrangement would be a better term.”

“I do appreciate the offer but-“

“You undersell yourself, Anders,” Danarius smirked and leaned towards him, tracing his fingertips across the armrest of Anders’ chair. Dangerously close to touching- but not quite. “You are a beautiful and intelligent man with much to offer. But that’s not what brings you here.”

“No, I have a different proposal, if you would be willing.”

“A proposal from you? I might be very willing… for a price.”

“Of course.” Anders took a deep breath. “I just need a small loan. You see, I need to travel to Kirkwall, as fast as possible. I will pay you back in full as soon as-“

“There’s no need for that. Money is no issue.” His grin grew feral, “How about a favor for a favor?”

He hesitated. “What is the favor?”

“That can be determined at a later date. Just know you will owe me, and one day I will come and collect. Are we agreed?”

He grimaced. “That leaves a lot of grey areas.”

“Don’t worry young man. I won’t come to ravish you. You will choose that of your own free will in time.”

Anders chuckled, his face flushed red. “You seem quite certain of that.” 

“I am. One day you will be mine.” 

Without a sound, Octavia returned, offering each man a glass and filling it with a deep red wine. As quickly as she arrived, she vanished, right back into the corner she came from. 

“But enough of that talk for now.” Danarius stood and offered a hand to Anders. Upon taking it, he was pulled to his feet, precariously close to the magister. Danarius intertwined their fingers before raising his glass. “A toast, to a safe trip to Kirkwall and to any future arrangements we may have.” 

Danarius drank deeply. Anders took a polite sip trying to ignore the way his heart slammed against his chest. It didn’t work.

“Thank you for the drink, it has been an absolutely lovely evening, but I should be heading back to the clinic.”

“Of course.” He leaned forward and placed a kiss on Anders’ cheek, pleased to find he was wearing the cologne he gave him. He was even more pleased to feel Anders freeze like frightened prey. “I will make travel arrangements immediately.”

“Thank you,” he said. It was barely a whisper. Danarius snapped his fingers and Octavia took the glass of wine out of his hand. He was impressed that he didn’t drop it after that stunt. Anders walked to the study door, eager to leave this mansion and the inhabitants that haunted it. As he reached the door Danarius spoke again.

“Oh, Anders?”

He paused and looked sheepishly over his shoulder like a child caught stealing sweets. “Yes?”

“You look absolutely sinful in green.”

Not knowing what to say to that, Anders merely nodded and fled the bloody mansion as fast as he could with newfound purpose. He was going to save Karl.

***

Karl awoke in darkness with a throbbing ache radiating from the back of his head. It felt like a fist was pounding through his skull, getting closer to escaping with each hit. He called upon the fade for a simple healing spell, but the connection sputtered and died. Magebane. The templars caught their quarry once again. He only hoped that Adelaide had managed to escape. They successfully destroyed her phylactery before fleeing to the sewers running beneath Darktown. She was a few paces ahead of him, seconds from freedom before they were attacked. He didn’t even hear the Templar come up behind him. Their armor was often so noisy he had a few seconds of warning, but this one was silent and quick, hitting him over the head in an instant. He supposed he should be thankful that they didn’t immediately lop off his head. Templar logic rarely strayed from “cry maleficar first, ask questions later”.

Karl heard footsteps, light, and quiet. The templar’s position was only given away through the wooden floorboards, creaking and groaning with each step. Wherever he was being held, it sounded old and neglected. Not the chantry then. The devout wouldn’t stand such distractions throughout the sermons. Nor the Gallows either, as cold stone floors were the only comfort. 

There were more footsteps, louder than the first templar, then voices. Their whispers echoed through the empty room. Both of them were men, one with a low, clear voice and a strong Fereldan accent. The other was deep, grating, and thick with loathing.

“This is foolish, even by my standards.” The Fereldan muttered.

“He is one of them, he has to know something.” 

“We don’t know that.”

“There was a woman with him. She escaped, she could be on a boat to Tevinter right now.”

He sighed, “You’re drunk.”

“What of it? 

“Just… Don’t do anything reckless. That’s my job.”

Karl heard a growl of frustration followed by footsteps rapidly approaching. The grimy sack on his head was ripped off. Inches from him were a pair of bright green eyes glittering like gems in the bright moonlight. The man grabbed a fistful of his hair, yanking his head back to see him fully. He could smell the sweet wine rolling off his breath.

“Where is Danarius?”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> I don't expect much to come from this fic, but after the years I have spent reading stories under this ship I felt that it was only right that I gave back to the community and share my story with you. Truthfully, the authors on this site have written some beautiful works of art that have helped me escape during tough times in my life. I hope that during the hellscape that is this pandemic, this story can help you escape and maybe give you a little joy on the way. As for future chapters, I'm not going to lie- I have horrible followthrough. The whole story is planned out, chapter by chapter but actually writing it is a different beast to tackle. However, I'm hoping to use this quarantine to my advantage and get the motivation I need to finish this story. If you enjoyed this chapter and are interested in reading more, please feel free to subscribe, leave kudos, or leave a comment saying hi.  
> And of course, Thanks again!


	2. Undo What's Done

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders arrives in Kirkwall to track down Karl. In the process, he falls into deep, deep, trouble. 
> 
> This chapter contains mentions of rape and suicide. If you would like to avoid this content, please stop reading at "Someone always came eventually." and continue reading after the "***".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly can't believe that not only have I finished another chapter, but I have already started writing the next one. How did I achieve this? My brain is worms! Worms wrote this. Science has come far. This fic is not beta-read, however, here is a huge shoutout to my roommate and best friend CJ for all of her words of wisdom. (And annoyed groans every time she came across a run-on sentence.) With that being said...  
> Sit back, relax, and enjoy!

The voyage Danarius arranged was extravagant. He spared no expense to guarantee that Anders arrived in style. The ship was unnecessarily large for the transport of just one man and it provided an entourage of pleasure slaves who were more than eager to offer their services. Anders found himself spending the majority of his time upon the ship politely, but firmly refusing their offers. Those ten days' travel to Kirkwall was the first time in a long time that he was able to have three full meals a day. Gradually he began to lose the sickly starving look that had plagued him ever since he chose the glamorous life of an apostate. To be fair, he was still rather skinny, but his bones no longer poked out of him in sharp angles. This was the first time Anders felt confident in his body since he left the Wardens. He might not have the defined muscles that he once had, but his body was healthy and strong. Yet, his mind was only filled with apprehension for the search ahead of him. 

Anders never thought he would return to Kirkwall, with the only exception being if he was dragged across the border in chains. He may have only lived there a short while, but the filth and despair still clung to his cloak as surely as it settled in his heart. It was no surprise that Kirkwall had not changed since his departure. The poor still drowned in Darktown while the rich built their houses with gold. The Tranquil still flooded the courtyard in the Gallows. He didn’t see Karl’s face among them. Thank the Maker for small mercies. The city was exactly as he left it- well, nearly. The Qunari were certainly new. 

Anders thought that tracking down Karl would be a long-winded affair leading to several dead ends and frustrated nights spent searching dark secluded alleyways. However, he quickly learned that with enough coin, lost men could be found within a matter of hours. It was a young elvhen woman who brought him to the decrepit mansion. She told Anders that on her walk home she had seen a man matching Karl’s description being carried inside the abandoned mansion. He was unconscious. She thought he was just another drunkard retiring for the night. Anders thanked her with a fistful of gold and sent her on her way. 

He waited till nightfall before approaching the old mansion. It looked just as haunted as the Hightown gossip had said it would. The ground surrounding the mansion was covered in broken glass and the walls were crumbling under an overgrown network of vines. He hoped Karl was inside. More than anything he hoped Karl was alive. 

Keeping to the shadows, he circled the mansion searching for a hidden entrance. All of the windows on the first floor had been boarded up. There were more windows on the second floor, including a balcony, but they were also secured from prying eyes. Around the back, he stumbled upon what must have been a garden once. It was beautiful but wild, with vivid flowers fighting to be seen under the moonlight. He pushed his way through the thicket but thorns caught on his beloved jacket, tearing through the faded fabric. His trip through the prickly brush was all for not, as the back entrance was sealed up tight.

“Andraste’s fat ass!” Anders cursed quietly under his breath and returned to the front of the mansion. 

There was only one entrance and one exit. He tentatively reached for the doorknob, a plethora of possibilities running through his mind. Maybe they left the mansion unguarded, thinking no one would come rescue a lowly mage. Maybe they had already left and Karl would be selling wares in the Gallows courtyard the following morning, a sunburst branded on his forehead. Maybe it was a trap. 

Anders felt ice pulsing through his veins. He rescued Karl once, he could do it again. He was a powerful mage. He escaped the circle alone, he could save Karl alone too.

**You are not alone Anders.**

That pulled a smile from him. He would never be alone again. He could do this.

Anders gathered his courage and twisted the handle. There was a soft click of the latch and the door slowly creaked open. Anders winced at the sound, but only silence followed. There was no explosion, no whoosh from a flurry of arrows, and no heavy footfalls pursued by a battle cry. Just sweet ominous silence. He quickly slipped inside.

The foyer was as dusty and barren as the mansion’s exterior. Strewn carelessly on the floor in a severe state of decay were three bodies. He refused to let himself contemplate the type of people holding Karl captive. He couldn’t consider what fate they would face if he didn’t succeed. 

He began searching rooms on the first floor only to come across empty crates and a well-stocked wine cellar. As each second ticked by, Anders felt his dread get washed away by Justice’s determination. Whoever was keeping Karl seemed to be absent at the moment. This mission might actually work thanks to sheer dumb luck.

It was the last door in the west wing which finally held something of value. Inside was a small study, in better repair compared to the rest of the house. The room was lit by a small stubby candle on a desk covered in a thick layer of dust. Sitting next to it was Karl, tied up, but alive. Anders surged forward, cradling Karl’s face with his hands. He couldn’t see much under the flickering candlelight but it looked as though Karl only had a few scrapes and bruises. 

“Are you okay?” Anders whispered, relieved.

“You need to go,” Karl begged.

Anders’ hands glowed a brilliant blue as wave after wave of healing magic encased Karl’s body. It was a little bit of an overkill, but he didn’t want to miss anything vital. 

“Don’t be ridiculous. I will always come for you.”

“No. Anders, you don’t understand-“

The door slammed shut behind him, startling Anders from his place at Karl’s side. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw an armored man in silver and black, a small weapon in his hand. Anders didn’t waste time and leaped to his feet. Drawing from the muscle memory built up after years of fighting Darkspawn, he swung his staff towards the man. 

“You will not have him!” A bolt of lightning shot out of the tip of his staff, heading straight for the man’s chest, only to crash into a magical barrier. His magic faltered. They weren’t Templars.

There was an elvhen man with shocking white hair and tattoos to match. He was the one who shut the door and trapped them there. He was tall for an elf, and unnervingly beautiful. The “weapon” in his hand was actually a nearly empty wine bottle. Behind him was a human. He was also tall and impressively muscular with an even more impressive beard. One hand was pinching the bridge of his nose, the other was holding a staff. That must have been the other mage. 

Anders found a steadier stance, using his staff to keep distance between himself and the elf who seemed more than eager to slaughter him. 

“You’re not Templars.”

The human chuckled. “No. Frankly, I find the armor garish. Besides, it would be a crime to hide my considerable assets.” 

Anders's jaw dropped in an almost comical fashion. Who were these people? 

“What do you want from him?”

“We just need information. No harm will come to either of you if you tell us what you know.”

“Don’t make promises you can not keep Hawke,” the elf scoffed.

“He thinks we work for Danarius,” Karl revealed.

“I know you do,” The elf jabbed a finger at him. “You wear his sigil.”

On the left breast of Karl’s robes, slightly faded from wear was a golden sun pierced by a staff. A mockery of the rite of tranquility. The robes were a gift from Danarius. A gift that Anders had given to Karl in turn. Purple was always his favorite color. 

“The clothes are mine. You have the wrong man. If you want someone to interrogate, then I’m the one you’re looking for.”

“Anders, no-”

“You want answers? I’ll give them to you. But only if you let Karl go.”

“Bah!” the elf spat. “Do you think I would let him run back to Danarius that easily?”

Anders grit his teeth. “He won’t. Not if I’m your prisoner.”

Karl struggled against his restraints. “Don’t-“

“Let him go home and I will tell you anything you want to know.”

“Vishante Kaffas!” The elf smashed the bottle against the door. Dark red wine dripped down the wood and settled on the shattered glass below. “He is not leaving here alive.”

“I would die for this man,” Anders snapped. The air crackled around him as he held his staff with a white-knuckled grip. “Do you not think I wouldn’t kill for him too?”

“No one is killing anyone,” the human said raising his hands in a calming gesture. “Fenris, I believe him.”

“Lies all of it,” the one called Fenris sneered. “You can never trust a mage.”

The human furrowed his bushy brows, the smile he gave not quite reaching his eyes. “You trust me. Don’t you?”

Fenris’s ears drooped slightly and diverted his gaze. He was a completely different man than the elf who brandished a shattered wine bottle as if it was a mighty sword. “You are different Hawke. But him? He is just a slimy magister waiting to happen.” 

“Maybe so, Hawke shrugged. “But I am an impeccable judge of character, and I’m telling you- he’s not lying.”

“Festis bei umo canavarum,” he grumbled under his breath. Fenris opened his mouth in a retort but no words came to him. He slammed his jaw shut and began pacing in front of the door. Anders was almost impressed that he didn’t embed the broken glass into his bare feet.

“Fine!” he shouted. “Fine.” He turned to Anders abruptly, causing him to stagger under the influence of copious amounts of wine. However drunk he was, his eyes were clear, vicious, and the most remarkable color of green. 

“He may leave. But you will stay here in his stead.” He then looks at Karl. “Know this now, if you ever lead Danarius to me, I will rip your lover’s heart out of his chest and feed it to him while it is still beating.”

Anders grit his teeth. “So be it.”

Fenris nodded, sealing their agreement. Hawke pulled out a knife and began cutting through the ropes that bound him.

“You really are a fool Anders,” Karl sighed.

He forced a smirk. “I never pretended I was anything but a fool.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because you’re Karl, and I will always come for you.” 

The rope snapped and Karl was free at last. He pulled Anders into a suffocating hug. Anders dug his fingers into Karl’s back, scrabbling to pull him closer. He was warm and he smelled like home. Karl’s beard tickled the crook of his neck.

“At the docks. I’ll wait for you.” He whispered into Anders’s ear.

He held Karl tighter. “Don’t,” he murmured. He took a deep breath and fortified himself before he firmly placed his hands on Karl’s shoulders and pushed him away forcing some distance. “Go home, Karl,” Anders said, louder this time. He sat in the threadbare chair, still warm, and crossed his arms.

Karl planted his feet resolutely on the rotting wood floor. “I can’t.”

“Leave,” Anders retorted. “Or I’ll never forgive you.”

Karl began to protest but the blue light that flickered behind Anders’ eyes gave him pause. His eyes flitted between Anders and his new captors before settling on his friend. His family. 

“Come home to me.”

“I will,” he promised. 

He didn’t want to leave. He couldn’t bear the thought of it. So, he didn’t think. Karl’s face slipped into an unreadable mask. He turned his back to Anders and walked away. He kept walking till he heard the lap of water slapping against rocks and the hulls of dozens of boats. He sat at the edge of one of the docks. His legs dangled a foot above the small waves. He sat there for several hours, under the twinkling night sky, watching the water roll back and forth. Karl’s mind was blissfully blank and empty. The sea was tranquil, and so was he. 

***

The interrogation dragged on endlessly. Nothing Anders said seemed to satisfy the elf. He was exhausted, Fenris was at his wit's end, and Hawke was sprawled out on the floor tossing a potion bottle in the air and catching it just moments before it hit the ground. 

The elf paced the length of the room and growled under his breath. “Venhedis. This is not working!”

Anders yawned and slumped further into the chair. “There’s nothing more to tell unless you want to hear about gift number thirty-three again. A genuine gold thong. Can you believe-”

“Enough! You’re hiding something mage, and I am finished playing this game of yours.” Fenris surged towards him and dug the tips of his metal gauntlets into his chest. “What are you hiding?”

“Nothing,” replied Anders through gritted teeth.

The elf’s lip curled in disgust. “So be it.” 

The tattoos along Fenris’ body flashed to life in a blinding blue light. Anders’ chest felt tight. He wasn’t sure if it was due to the elf’s hand digging deeper into his flesh, or the odd tug that drew him closer to the light. His consciousness was plucked from his body and sent backward deep into the recesses of his mind. For a brief moment, before slipping into the void, Anders felt an overwhelming and all-consuming need. 

**“He sings,”** Justice gasped. 

Fenris jerked backward as if Anders’ touch had burned him. He staggered to catch himself. A small patch of blood began to bloom through Ander’s coat. 

The light flickered out and Anders was overcome with mourning. Justice lingered at the surface of his mind, lurking, waiting for another chance to get close. Justice yearned for the elf’s song. Anders shuddered. Justice wasn’t supposed to have wants or desires. 

“What are you?” he stammered.

“Kaffas,” he growled. “He’s an abomination.”

Hawke hummed from his seat on the floor. It seemed that all the glowing was interesting enough to draw his attention. “I doubt it. I’ve never seen an abomination look so nice. They usually have the whole decaying-twisted flesh thing going on.”

“It was a demon,” Fenris insisted. “I felt it.” He tried lunging at Anders again, but lost his footing and toppled into the desk. 

“Alright, that’s enough. Time for bed,” Hawke said, rising to his feet.

“He must die!”

“Killing him wouldn’t achieve anything. You still think he’s hiding something right?” the man sighed and scratched his beard. “Look, you’re past drunk. You’re not going to get anything else out of him tonight. We can go at it again tomorrow.”

The elf opened his mouth in protest, but his eyes glazed over trying to come up with a good counterpoint in his current state. “Fine Hawke. We can put him in the cellar like the other one.”

“Fair enough,” he relented.

The two of them guided Anders down the hall. Well, it was more like the human guided while the elf glared daggers at the back of his head from a safe distance behind him. They took him to the wine cellar he crossed earlier that night. Inside there was a small pillow and a threadbare blanket underneath an empty wine rack. 

“I know it’s not really comfortable but…” Hawke trailed off and scratched the back of his head.

“It is a makeshift prison cell, Hawke,” the elf said. “It is not supposed to be comfortable.” 

“I guess you’re right,” he sighed. Hawke began casting wards around the interior of the cellar. 

Anders could sense it was home-brewed magic, nothing at all like what a mage was taught in the circle. This cellar would be his cage. Shortly, the mage finished murmuring his incantations. Hawke yawned loudly and cracked his neck. He rejoined Fenris at the doorway.

“Goodnight,” he said, with a little wave, before closing the door and encasing Anders in darkness. 

“Goodnight?” Fenris sneered.

“What!?”

Fenris rolled his eyes and stomped off to the second floor muttering curses under his breath in Tevene.

For what seemed like the hundredth time that night, Hawke sighed and followed after him. “I don’t think he knows anything. He just seems like any southern mage seeking freedom in the north.”

“You are a fool to blindly trust every pretty face you see.” Fenris scoffed.

“I’m not saying he won’t be useful. I mean, he seems to despise Danarius just as much as we do. I don’t think he’s in cahoots with him- that’s all. “

“He is a filthy mage and he can not be trusted.”

Hawke froze at the top of the staircase. His gaze became as cold and harsh as steel. “I am a filthy mage. So was my sister. So was my father. If I am blessed to have any children, they will be mages as well. This filthy mage is trying to protect you. Trying to help you.”

Fenris faltered. “Hawke… I did not mean-“

“But you did. I hold no delusions about your feelings on magic Fenris. I know your hate is warranted. Danarius is a right bastard, and I will happily do a Fereldan jig on his grave when the time comes. I just… I’m already hated by the world- I don’t need to add your hate to the pile.”

Fenris stared at him desperately searching for the words that could set this right but only finding silence. The kind of silence that often spoke more truth than words could. Too late he found his voice. 

“I apologize Hawke. I know I can be… prickly. I am thankful for everything you have done for me. I don’t want to burden you further,” he murmured.

“We’re friends Fenris,” Hawke said softly.

“I’m not certain I know what that is.”

“You’ll know in time. Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

Fenris shrugged him off. “I am not tired.” 

“Will you at least lay down for a little?” 

“I suppose.” The elf staggered towards his bedroom. Despite his protests, Fenris was out like a light by the time his head hit the mattress. He was still donned in full armor but Hawke didn’t dare undress him. However, he did cover him with a blanket. It would be an uncomfortable night, but at least he would be warm. Hawke left Fenris to his slumber and slowly descended the stairs, the exhaustion of the sordid affair finally hitting him. What a mess they were in. Then, there was a strangled cry and a burst of light that peeked through the crack of the cellar door as he walked past. The mage wasn’t supposed to be able to do magic. Hawke made sure of that. 

“Oh fuck.” 

***

There was only darkness. No. There was a smell too. The smell of wine. Thick and overpowering. It almost hid the scent of Karl. Anders could smell the soap he used in his hair on the pillow they had thrown in there. For a moment he could forget where he was and imagine that he was curled up next to Karl like he used to do in the circle.

He was not in the circle.

He was not in the circle.

He was not in the circle.

He tried to create fire in his hands, just so he could see. Just so he could prove to himself that the walls around him were made of wine racks and not those stone walls. Fire does not come. The templars gave him magebane. They wanted to keep him in the dark. He reminded himself that he just had to wait. Someone always came eventually. They would deliver food, or beat him, or fuck him. 

**Anders.**

But when they came he could see light through the door. He could see his own body. He would know he was alive and real. If he was lucky they would be gentle with him. They would talk to him. 

**Listen to me.**

He could hear a voice. The demons were back. He wouldn’t give in. He couldn’t. He had a way out. Where was it? 

**You are not alone.**

He saw the templar throw it in. Didn’t he? There was pity in his eyes. Or was it delight? Anders couldn’t read faces anymore. He trailed his hands slowly across the cobblestone floor. He knew it was there. He needed relief. He needed it. Where was it? His hands only found the cold stone floor. Where was the fucking knife? 

**Anders.**

Then, there was nothing. 

***

When Hawke entered the cellar he found Anders calmly sitting criss-cross, with his back against an empty wine rack. A pillow was placed in his lap. His eyes glowed a brilliant blue and light leaked through cracks in his skin. Small wisps of smoke wrapped around him. He looked unworldly and utterly terrifying. 

The bright eyes landed on him.  **“You must be the one they call Hawke,”** the thing said. 

“And you must be the demon,” Hawke replied.

**“I am no demon.”**

“What are you, then?”

**“I am Justice,”** he said, as if it was as simple as that. No explanation needed. He was Justice, and what more was there to say?

“Ah. Do you do the glowy thing often?”

Justice looked at him perplexed, as if the reason were obvious.  **“Anders is afraid of the dark.”**

Hawke looked at him for a long moment before sending a few glowing orbs into the air, lighting up the cellar around them. He took a seat on the steps leading down into the cellar and stared at the being in front of him. Justice stared back. 

“You know,” Hawke began. “I’ve seen some weird shit, but this takes the cake.”

**“What cake?”** Justice cocked his head to the side.

“Nevermind,” Hawke chuckled. This was the weirdest night he’s had in a long time.

**“I see. It is humor.”** Justice said. He looked at the ceiling and watched the orbs. The two of them settled into silence. It was peaceful, if it could be called that. Two mages and the concept of justice sat together in a cellar, admiring pretty lights. There was a joke in there somewhere. Two mages walked into a bar… 

Justice took a deep breath, stirring Hawke from his thoughts.  **“Thank you, for the light.”** He shut his eyes, and when they opened again, the cracks along his skin faded and his eyes returned to a golden brown. Anders folded into himself. He squeezed the pillow tight to his chest- his eyes locked on the orbs floating around the room.

Hawke stood and walked towards the other mage. “You don’t know a damn thing about Danarius, do you?”

“No,” Anders said. His voice was barely a whisper. 

“What do you know?” he asked.

“Nothing more than gossip really. Politics in Tevinter are tricky and his slaves are well trained. None of them dare speak ill of him, no matter how many times I treat their injuries.”

“You’re a healer then?”

“A spirit healer actually. I own a free clinic in Minrathous. Many of my patients are his.”

“Fenris used to be his,” Hawke added.

“I see...I suppose that explains a lot.” Anders rested his forehead on the pillow. “Danarius comes up with some of the most… creative punishments for his slaves.” 

“So I’ve heard...Fenris has been running from him for a long time,” Hawke said. “He’s decided that this is where he will make his final stand.”

Anders lifted his head off the pillow and raised his brows. “He plans on killing him?”

“Yes.”

“Good on him. The bastard deserves to rot.”

Hawke offered a hand to him. “Come on. I’m giving you a real bed.” 

“What?” 

“You may not have the information we need, but it doesn’t mean you can’t help us. Danarius wants you, right?”

“Well, I mean-” Anders sputtered.

“He gave you a gold thong if I am remembering correctly,” Hawke smirked.

He shrugged. “You would be surprised how many medical supplies that can buy.”

“Danarius wants you. And what I’ve learned about the man is that he always gets what he wants. We can use that to our advantage.”

“You want me to be your bait.”

Hawke shrugged and gave him a guilty smile. “Stay at my place tonight and think on it. By morning if you want to return to Tevinter with your lover, then be my guest. But if you help? I promise you a shipload of medical supplies you can take back to your clinic. Imagine, enough medicine to buy hundreds of gold thongs.”

He raised an eyebrow and gave Hawke a once over. The man had a hole in his boot for the Maker’s sake. 

Hawke gave Anders his award-winning grin. “I know I have the look of a ruggedly handsome apostate, but believe it or not, I am fabulously wealthy.” 

“Fine,” he caved. “A bed for the night, but I promise no more.”

“Just think on it, Andy.” Again, Hawke offered his hand to the other mage.

“An-ders. My name is Anders.” He took his hand and was pulled to his feet.

“Hawke. Garret Hawke.”

***

Hawke wasn’t kidding when he said he was rich. Like Fenris, he too lived in a mansion, although his was a well-managed paradise compared to the elf’s dump. Hawke snuck the two of them into the house, a feat quite impressive for a man so large. Anders however nearly screamed and woke up the entire house when he saw a young dwarf standing at the end of the hall mostly obscured by shadows. 

“Oh Maker!” he snatched Hawke’s hand in a death grip.

“That’s just Sandal. He does that a lot.”

“Sandal? Like the shoe?”

Hawke shrugged. 

“Enchantment?” asked Sandal.

Hawke shook his head. “Not tonight buddy.”

Hawke guided Anders to a guest bedroom in the west wing of the second floor. He barely had a chance to walk through the door before Hawke bid him goodnight and he was left alone. The door was not locked. He sensed no spells or enchantments trapping him behind the four walls. He was free! He could possibly sneak out the way he entered. But he didn’t want to come across that spooky dwarf again. Maybe he could try the window? If he tied the bedsheets together they should be long enough.

**We are staying.**

“What gave you that idea?” he said under his breath.

**The singing elf. He needs our help.**

Anders snorted. “He seems perfectly capable of killing Danarius by himself.”

**He seeks justice. It is our duty.**

“We owe him nothing.”

**He deserves freedom just as you do.**

“I don’t disagree. But-“

**Then we are staying.**

“You didn’t even want to come here in the first place,” Anders whined.

**Perhaps fate had other plans.**

“We would be helping an insufferable ass.” 

**Karl says that you are an insufferable ass, however, he still seems to come to your aid.**

“You spend waaaay too much time with Karl,” Anders grumbled. He needed to leave. Karl was somewhere at the docks waiting for him. He shouldn’t be here. He should be on the next boat back to Tevinter with Karl at his side.

**You achieved your goal, Anders. You saved him. Karl will be safe. He is a capable mage and a very resourceful man.**

“We should be going home together.” 

**You will be together soon enough. Please, let me help the elf.**

“Ugh,” he growled. “Fine. Fine! I’ll do what I can. But we aren’t staying a moment longer than we need to.”

**Thank you, Anders**

He rolled his eyes and started undressing. He laid his clothes over the back of a plush red armchair and changed into a pair of soft linen pants that he found in the guest room’s armoire. He lit a candle and placed it on the bedside table to chase the darkness away. The moment he slipped under the sheets, he melted into the bed. The fabric was so soft and the mattress practically cocooned him. He rapidly succumbed to unconsciousness and took his first few steps into the fade. Anders had almost forgotten what it was like to sleep through the night without a single nightmare haunting his dreams.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tevene 101
> 
> Vishante Kaffas - You shit on my tongue  
> Festis bei umo canavarum - You will be the death of me  
> Venhedis - A swear word (in this context it means fucking hell)  
> Kaffas - Shit
> 
> Thanks for reading!  
> I would also especially like to thank everyone who left a comment or kudos on this fic. All of your feedback means the world to me. I light up every time I get a notification. 
> 
> !Fun Fact!  
> I got a job! This is good because it means I will most likely not be homeless at the end of the month. This is bad because I am constantly exposed to others. It also means I will have less time to write. It is a crazy world we live in right now. I hope that everyone is staying safe and finding their joy.


	3. Coarse and Unrefined

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris discovers his empty wine cellar and decides to go mage hunting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3 has arrived folks! I honestly didn't think I would make it this far as I am the textbook definition for people who abandon their works after the first few sentences. But here we are! A new chapter is here and the next one is in process. If you are reading this, thank you for sticking with me so far, and I promise not to fall back into old habits.   
> Enjoy!

When Fenris awoke it was to the smell of vomit and the rancid taste of alcohol on his tongue. When he opened his eyes he was greeted with a face-full of sun that shone through the mansion’s skylight. It momentarily blinded him and sent his head pounding like the old Starkhaven drum that Hawke had found. He had spent a whole week following Sebastian around with that obnoxious drum before it mysteriously disappeared. At some point during the night, he had fallen out of his bed; well, most of him had. One leg was determined to hang on to the mattress while the rest of his body was sprawled out on the cold wooden floor, tangled in sweaty sheets. His head rested in something that was sticky and smelled even fowler than it felt. 

Fenris groaned and sat up. He immediately regretted it. He held nausea at bay as he stumbled over to the chamberpot and dry heaved until his stomach settled. He rested his forehead against the doorframe. Slowly but surely he came back to his senses. 

It was just past sunrise. Fenris was never one to sleep in. Not even a hangover could break that habit drilled into him during his days as Danarius’ bodyguard. After Fenris cleaned up the mess out of his hair and off the floor, he methodically oiled his sword and armor. By the time he finished, the sun had risen a little higher in the sky. Hefting Lethendralis across his back, Fenris decided it was time to give his prisoner a wake-up call. 

He took the stairs two at a time but slowed as he entered the foyer. Something was wrong. The intense heat that usually radiated off of Hawke’s magic was gone. 

No.

No. No. No.

Fenris dashed to the cellar, where the door was wide open. He stormed into the room and lit his markings, ignoring the pain, but using the light to see what he already knew to be true. There was no mage. His sword dropped to his side and he leaned against it to keep from falling. 

Danarius would be upon him in a fortnight. He was not prepared. He could not ask Hawke to stand beside him and risk his life. Fenris would not fail him like he had failed the others in Seheron. He would never turn on his friends again. He had to protect them from himself. He needed to leave. Leave everyone and everything behind. 

NO!

His blood chilled at the thought of being dominated like that again, but just as quickly, the heat of his righteous anger boiled over. He refused to cower. He would kill Danarius or he would die. He would not run. Fenris strapped his blade to his back. 

It was time to go mage hunting.

***

Fenris slammed his fist against Hawke’s door. He hit it again and again, nearly bashing Bodahn’s skull when he came to open it.

“Ah, Messere Fenris-“ he began, but Fenris pushed past him. 

“HAWKE!” There was no response. The house remained quiet. “HAWKE?” he called again, his voice cracking at the end. “HAWKE HE-“

The mage stepped out onto the balcony and leaned against the railing. He was shirtless, and his pale skin held the scars of battle. His strawberry blond hair brushed the top of his shoulders and glinted like molten gold in the morning light. Fenris couldn’t help but think Anders looked ethereal as he blinked sleep from his eyes- a thought he immediately tried to smother out.

Anders yawned. “What’s going-“

“YOU!” Fenris pointed an accusatory finger at his escaped prisoner. 

“Oh. It’s you,” he grumbled. “I’m going back to bed.” 

Fenris gaped at him with the grace of a suffocating carp, his finger still pointed at Anders. Why was he in Hawke’s house? Where were his clothes? “GARRET!” Fenris bellowed. His eyes were trained on the mage as if blinking would give him a chance to disappear.

There was a loud thump from the master bedroom followed by Hawke’s colorful cursing. The man himself stumbled out the doorway, nude as the day he was born- save for a hastily placed pillow in front of his crotch. Fenris tore his eyes away from one man to the other. Hawke was absurdly well built for a mage. It was truly a crime that every single well-toned muscle was on display. He felt shame coil deep in his stomach along with the desire he held for the other man that he desperately tried to snuff out. Hawke deserved better than him. His eyes darted between the two mages and the blatant amount of skin on display between the two. He had the sudden impression that he interrupted a very intimate moment. Something poisonous took root in his heart at the thought.

“What!? What happened?” Hawke asked, eyes frantically flitting around the room searching for threats. 

“Garret,” Fenris growled, his voice as corrosive as acid. “Pray tell why the abomination is not locked away in the cellar where it belongs?”

Hawke’s eyes landed on Fenris and his confusion was wiped away. “Fuck... I should have left a note or something.”

“A note?” he jeered. As if that would have been helpful. He tried to reign in his rising anger. Hawke did not know. He did not mean it in jest. “Why is he here?”

“We talked more last night,” Hawke explained as he descended the staircase. “He’s not a threat. I think he might be able to help us.”

“You welcomed an enemy into your home after having ‘a little chat’? Why would you do something so idiotic?!” he snapped. 

“I can fend for myself Fenris. If I felt that he was truly a threat, I wouldn’t have brought him here.”

He raised an eyebrow and gestured at Hawke’s disheveled appearance. “Oh, I am quite sure you would be a force to reckon with, naked and half asleep, when the demon next door came knocking!” 

“He wouldn’t-” 

“Do you see him as harmless then? An abomination who would never harm someone?”

“Like ripping someone’s heart out of his chest?” Anders retorted, stomping down the stairs to join them. His hand reached up to cover the freshly healed wound the elf had given him the night before.

“I did that at the behest of no demon,” Fenris snarled.

“So we agree that it doesn’t take a demon for someone to be a vicious killer?” Anders circled Fenris, his eyes lingering on his sharp gauntlets and massive greatsword. “Good. Glad to see we are on the same page.”

“I am sure you know all too well what it means to be a vicious killer mage.”

Anders rolled his eyes. “Why am I even here?” he muttered.

“That is a good question,” Fenris said. “Why did you stay, mage? You could have left at any point last night, but clearly you did not. Are you hoping to gather more information for Danarius?” He stepped dangerously close to the abomination. “Are you going to kneel at his feet and hope he rewards you for a job well done?”

“You would know all about kneeling at his feet wouldn’t you?” Anders spat. “Unlike you, Hawke actually treats me with some semblance of respect and we came to an agreement. I don’t give a damn about your plight, but I do care for the countless numbers of Danarius’ slaves that I have pulled from death. Especially those I was too late to save. They deserve justice.”

“How convenient that-”

“Enough!” Hawke barked, stepping between the two men. He somehow still managed to impose an intimidating figure despite all of his assets being out in the open. “I made a call. I know you disagree with it Fenris and it might not have been my call to make- but, I did. Danarius is a powerful mage. We need all the allies we can get if we want to take him out. I did this for you.”

Anders took a deep breath and tried to look past the elf’s prickly exterior and to the troubled man within. “You don’t have to trust me. Maker knows I don’t trust you. But, both of you pulled me into this. I should be on a boat to Tevinter with Karl by now, but I’m not. So let me give you the help you need so I can go home to him.”

Fenris glared at the mage. It must be some sort of trick. It had to be. “Hawke, you may believe the abomination, I, on the other hand, do not have a death wish. You can be blind to the evils of your kind, but I will not make the same mistake. If he wants to help, he will do it on my terms. The mage will stay with me, under my watch.”

Anders paled. “I am not going back in there.”

“Those are my terms, abomination.”

Anders lifted his chin. “And I have conditions.”

“You are in no place to ask,” Fenris said.

Anders raised a finger, ignoring him. “One: I will have a real room and a real bed.” He lifted another finger. “Two: I will not be locked up. Keep an eye on me if you must, but I will not be your prisoner.”

“Absolutely not,” he huffed.

“It’s a reasonable request Fenris,” Hawke said. “If it will make you feel safer, I can put up wards around your room to-”

“No!” Fenris grit his teeth. “No magic. I can handle him.”

“Are we in agreement?” Anders asked.

“For now. Until you show your true colors, that is.”

“Wonderful!” Hawke beamed. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get dressed, and then I’ll pop down to the market to grab some breakfast. Any requests?” 

The mention of food cut through the tension, and both the elf and the mage relaxed slightly. “Just the usual,” said Fenris.

“I’ll eat anything, honestly,” Anders added.

“Splendid!” Hawke began shuffling back to his room, careful to keep his manhood covered. “Please don’t kill each other until I get back!”

As the door shut behind him, Fenris turned back to Anders. “The only reason you are standing now is due to the fact I respect Hawke a great deal. If you take one step out of line, be assured that I will rip out your heart before you have a chance to destroy the life I built here.”

“Ah ‘respect’. Right. That’s definitely the word for it,” he scoffed. “Save your rage for Danarius. You will need it when the time comes.” Anders turned on his heel and walked away. 

Fenris caught a glimpse of his back as he disappeared around the corner. Anders’ shoulders were drenched with freckles and the cross-hatching of all-too-familiar pale scars. A chill slowly ran up his spine. Then, it was no longer a chill but a cold hand on his shoulder. It squeezed him, too rough to be comforting. He felt the braided leather grip in his hand. He pulled the tail of the whip through his fingers until rivulets of blood rolled down the fall and dripped onto the floor. There were so many marks on Anders already, red and oozing, trailing from the nape of his neck to the end of his spine.

“Again,” Danarius commanded. 

Fenris brought his arm back. Anders looked over his shoulder, but instead, he wore Hawke’s face and easy smile.

“No!” he tried to scream but all that left his lips was a croak. He refused to give Danarius more power over him than he already held. 

He took several deep breaths and focused on the parlor around him. He felt soft carpet beneath his bare feet. He heard the faint chirping of birds outside the window. He smelled blossoms from the nearby trees floating through the windows. Slowly, he became more grounded in reality as the vision lost its hold. The memories always lingered at the back of his mind, ready to strike at any moment, warping into his worst fears. But, Fenris was in control. He had to be. Whatever had happened to Anders was no concern of his, Fenris had his own demons to handle. With a huff, he left for Hawke’s kitchen to liberate a bottle of wine.

***

Hawke heaped piles of food onto Anders’ plate, fussing and bustling around him like a mother hen. 

“You’re far too skinny,” he said, pouring Anders another cup of coffee. “I thought life in Tevinter would be more prosperous for a mage.”

“My clinic is free,” he said through a mouthful of bacon. “Any donations we happen upon go right back into keeping it open. Sometimes it means skipping a meal or two.” 

Hawke pushed more dishes to his side of the table. “Well, eat up! I won’t have you dropping dead on me because you’re the size of a twig”

Anders chuckled. “Blame that on the infamous Warden appetite.”

Hawke’s eyes lit up. “You’re a Warden?”

“Was,” Anders corrected.

Fenris raised a distrustful eyebrow. This man was a Warden? He doubted it.

“I’ve always heard joining the Wardens is for life,” Hawke said as he leaned forward in his chair and rested his chin on his fist.

“That’s only partly true,” Anders said, gesturing with his fork. “The ‘hopelessly tainted by the darkspawn’ and ‘plagued by nightmares about the Archdemon’ parts don’t go away. But it turns out, if you hide well, you don’t have to wear the uniform or go to the parties.” 

He smirked and leaned in conspiratorially. “Did you know the Hero of Ferelden?”

“Amell?” Anders nodded. “Of course.”

Hawke’s grin grew. “She’s my cousin.”

Anders’ jaw dropped. “You’re joking.”

“It’s true!” Hawke leaned back and crossed his arms. “My mother’s maiden name is Amell.”

Anders could see the resemblance. They had the same dark hair and the same nose. Although Hawke’s certainly had been broken several times. He even had the same glint of mischief in his eyes. “Makers balls. You’re not joking.”

“Nope!”

“Wow.” Anders marveled, shaking his head. “I guess kidnapping runs in the family. First, she steals me for the Wardens and now this.”

Hawke laughed and placed his hand on Anders’ arm. “What was she like?”

Fenris zeroed in on the contact and scowled, finishing off his glass of wine and pouring another one. Hawke had always been a huge flirt, but he thought he would at least have some standards.

“Phenomenal, actually,” Anders smiled slightly at the memory. “We grew up together, believe it or not. We were both in the Kinloch Hold. We weren’t close at the time. I caused too much trouble and she was very much a teacher’s pet. I didn’t think she knew I existed, but several escape attempts later, and there she was, conscripting my ass and saving me from a rope around my neck.”

“If only I had known you when we went into the Deep Roads,” he said, lightly tracing circles on Anders’ forearm.

Fenris rolled his eyes. Seriously?

“Why on earth would you go down there?” Anders asked.

Hawke shrugged. “Money of course.” He turned to his elvhen companion. “Maker, how long were we trapped down there Fenris? A month?”

“It sure felt like it,” he grunted, taking a sip of wine. Watching the two of them cozying up to each other felt even longer. At least Hawke had exquisite taste in alcohol if not in men. His body was looser now and the sharp pain that constantly radiated from his markings dulled into background noise.

Anders wrinkled his nose. “Do you ever drink water?”

“Do you ever chew with your mouth closed?” Fenris retorted.

Anders stopped shoveling eggs into his mouth and put down his fork. Fenris took another sip of his wine with a smirk. 

“Thought so.” 

Hawke sighed. “Now now, children.”

“Storytime is over Hawke.” Fenris set down his glass. “I want to hear what the mage has to say.”

“Fine,” Hawke said. He started pushing apple slices, cheese, and crackers toward Fenris’ side of the table. “Get something other than wine into your stomach at least, please.”

Fenris nodded in agreement and turned to question the mage. Hawke coughed and stared at him pointedly until he gave in and put an apple slice in his mouth. That seemed to please him, as Hawke gestured for Fenris to ask away. 

Fenris leaned forward on the table. “Last night you said that Danarius was the one who approached you when you first came to Tevinter. Why?”

“I wish I knew,” Anders muttered, rubbing his hand across his face. “I’m not sure why he is so persistent. One day he just showed up at my clinic and stood in the corner, watching me work. After a while, it became really frustrating. Patients who needed healing would bolt at the sight of him. Karl tried to get him to leave, but he refused until he had a chance to speak with me. That was when he proposed his arrangement. He wanted a companion, and in turn, he would take me on as his apprentice. I refused, and he’s been trying to win my favor ever since.”

“But you accepted his gifts?”

“Well yes, but-” Anders faltered. 

Fenris sneered. “Typical.”

“For your information, every gift he gave me was either used for practical reasons or sold to keep my free clinic running. Emphasis on the free.”

The elf rolled his eyes and took a long swig from the wine bottle, abandoning his cup. “Was there a woman with him when he visited? Dark hair, blue eyes, had a smile that made your skin crawl? She was his apprentice.”

“She wasn’t there the first time Danarius visited, but thanks to my unfortunate luck I have crossed paths with her. Hadrianna correct?”

He nodded. “At least we agree on one thing,” Fenris mumbled as he brought the wine to his lips again.

“But why was Karl in Kirkwall?” Hawke asked.

“Did Danarius send him?” Fenris added.

“No. He didn’t even know he was gone until I went to him.” Anders said.

Fenris grabbed the edge of the table. “You what?”

“When Karl didn’t return I assumed the worst. I needed to find him. Danarius had the funds to make that happen,” Anders explained.

“So he sent you here instead.” Fenris stood slowly, holding the wood in a white-knuckled grip. 

Anders lifted his hands, palms outward, and leaned back from the glowering elf. “No one sent me. I came for Karl.”

“He doesn’t give anything away freely,” he hissed. “What did you promise him in return?”

“I-”

“What did you promise him?!” Fenris barked.

“A favor,” Anders stammared. “Just a favor.”

Fenris chuckled. It was a dark, nasty thing that bubbled from deep within his chest. “You sold your soul and you do not even realize it. Never make deals with a magister mage. You will live to regret it.”

“Well, certainly not if you kill him,” he quipped. 

“He has the upper hand, he always has.” Fenris fixed his glare on Hawke. “Now his new pet is here to squirm his way past our defenses and you let him in.”

“Fenris I-” Hawke began, but Anders made him stop short.

“You’re paranoid. There is no plot. I wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for the two of you, kidnapping people left and right. I didn’t even know you existed.” 

“You are more of a fool than I thought if you can’t see his true intentions,” growled Fenris. “Every decision Danarius makes is a highly strategized move. You are not here because of his goodwill- there is a reason, and it always turns out in his favor. You should not have underestimated him.”

Anders sighed and threw his hands up exasperated. “I don’t see why he would go through all this trouble for one measly slave.”

“You are naive to think he would so freely let any of his property go. Let alone me, his- his… VENHEDIS!” His fist slammed into the table, leaving a sizable crack in the wood that ran from his seat to the mage’s. He felt his knuckles crunch at the moment of impact, and he knew he would later regret this outburst, but the pain grounded him. He could drown in those memories if he let himself, and he would not. 

“Easy Fenris,” Hawke warned.

His brands came to life, and with their light came the familiar bite of dozens of knives dragging along his skin, digging into the more sensitive areas his markings covered. He noticed a blue flicker of light dancing behind the mage’s eyes. Anders stared at Fenris, wide-eyed. His fingers dug into the wooden armrest and he leaned forward slightly. For a man with overwhelming desire echoing in his eyes, he showed a considerable amount of restraint. Especially for a mage. Especially for an abomination.

“I am not surprised that your demon is fascinated with them,” he sneered. “It is raw lyrium after all. A fortune’s worth, one that Danarius paid for.”

The horror that overcame the mage’s face as he realized the gravity of what had been done to him, almost made the elf feel smug. But that was quickly overcome with Fenris’ own revulsion at the grotesque lines that disfigured his body. He was a monster, a beast, and the mage finally knew it.

“Oh Maker,” Anders whispered.

Fenris let the marking flicker out. He found a moment of brief relief in the dull ache that radiated across his body. The mage seemed almost as relieved as he did, sinking back into his chair and curling away from the elf. 

“You are either his pawn or his partner,” Fenris said. “But it matters not. I refuse to let you out of my sight until my former master is dead. He will not learn anything from you.”

“I don’t kiss and tell,” he mumbled, failing to maintain his bravado.

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Believe what you will.” Anders sighed. “I won’t tell him anything.”

“Don’t underestimate him, abomination.”

The mage flinched. It was a slight movement, but Fenris’ keen sight caught it nonetheless.

“Whatever mutt,” Anders said, picking up his fork and stabbing at his breakfast with renewed vigor.

“More importantly,” he added with a feral grin. “Don’t underestimate me.”

There was a loud screech as Anders’ fork scraped against the ceramic plate. “Is that a threat?”

Fenris picked up the nearly finished bottle of wine. “Keep playing the fool and you will find out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter!  
> A huge thank you to everyone who decided to click on this fic and read it. And an extra-special thank you to all of those who left a comment or kudos. It is always a huge motivator to hear your feedback. Every time I get a notification I run straight to my roommate (who also acts as my live-in best friend and beta-reader) and freak out about it. If you enjoyed this chapter and are interested in reading more, please feel free to subscribe, leave kudos, or just leave a comment saying hi.  
> Thanks again for reading and stay lovely! 
> 
> P.S.   
> I found a new apartment and just moved in a few days ago so I am no longer facing the threat of homelessness! Yay! 
> 
> P.S.S
> 
> If you like, you can find me on Tumblr at fustianriddles.  
> I mainly post about dungeons and dragons and being queer as fuck, but you can also find a few dragon age gems hidden in there. I could always use a few more dragon age pals!


	4. Barely Even Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders discovers that living with Fenris is trial, but at least they can burn off steam by killing some slavers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello,  
> It's been a while, but I'm still here I promise! A huge shout out to my beta-reader CJ. Without her help, I would honestly not have the confidence to post a single sentence let alone a whole chapter. I know I joke a lot about unfinished projects of mine but I promise there are more chapters headed your way. Thank you so much for reading my story, and strap in for a wild ride!

Anders was certain that Fenris had broken his hand. His knuckles were swollen and blotched with dark purple bruises. On his first night at the mansion, he attempted to extend an olive branch to the grumpy elf by offering to heal his hand. Of course, Fenris refused, determined to wallow in his pain rather than soil himself with magic. Anders wished Fenris and his stubbornness all the luck in Thedas, for it would take a miracle for him to wield his ridiculously large sword. In the mage’s opinion, the blade was clearly compensating for something. If Anders noticed Fenris’ poor attempts at wrapping his hand- he said nothing. If the elf refused help, so be it. 

After their last fight, Fenris avoided him like the plague. Anders sat in his room day in and day out, with only his thoughts for company. He could handle the cold shoulder, but the one thing he couldn’t stand, however, was the incessant boredom. At least in the Circle, there had been books. Andraste’s tits, Anders would take any of the old dusty tomes he hated as a teen if it meant he could at least distract himself from the silence, if not from Fenris. 

It was ironic that at one point in his life he was a slave to the Chantry. Now he was a slave to a slave himself. One who held the same beliefs as the Templars. He thought that Fenris, of all people, would understand him. They had both escaped their captors, but the elf didn’t see the Circle as a prison the way that Anders did. Being around Fenris already riled the mage up, and the silent treatment wasn’t helping. He never did do well in solitude. Anders felt like a child again, constantly overcome by spite and the desire to prove himself. They were so alike, Anders and Fenris, and the mage was determined to convince him.

Anders seized his opportunity on the fourth morning in the mansion when Fenris came to his room to deliver breakfast. He had knocked on the door, brisk but polite like usual before entering. He extended a tray to Anders, which carried a glass of water, a bowl, and some silverware. Fenris’ movements were mechanical and he barely spared the mage a glance.

“There’s been something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Anders said while taking the offered tray.

Fenris crossed his arms over his chest as if he knew this moment was coming. “Speak your mind.”

Anders poked at his porridge with his spoon, avoiding eye contact with the other man. How could he put this delicately? “I understand why you hate magisters. That makes sense to me. But…”

“But?” he prompted.

“Certainly you don’t hate all mages? You seem to like Hawke well enough. You must have seen how magic is treated differently in the South. Mages aren’t like what you saw in Tevinter.”

“The moment they are free, mages will make themselves Magisters,” Fenris said and turned to walk away.

Anders’ head jerked up and he began to follow after him. “They’re slaves! You should want to help them.”

“I don’t.”

“But you agree they are slaves?” he asked earnestly. 

Fenris picked up the pace. “I did not say that mage.”

“You sought freedom. Why shouldn’t they?” urged Anders.

Fenris stopped walking, causing Anders to bump into him. He turned around and glared at the taller man. “I escaped a land of dark magic only to have it hunt me at every turn. It is a plague burned into my flesh and my soul. Yet you suggest that I should desire to give the very people who hold that power the freedom to use it?”

“Why must mages always want power?” Anders challenged throwing his hands in the air. “Why can’t they want a nice cup of tea or a good shag? Or, I don’t know, maybe a family or a career or simply a life they can call their own? The Circle is an injustice- you must see that!”

“Must I?” sneered Fenris. “I see Templars trying to control what they have good reason to fear.” 

“But they go too far.” Anders insisted.

Fenris gestured at the lines carved into his skin. “Mages always go too far.”

Anders’ gaze softened as his eyes traced the markings. “You can’t hold all mages responsible for what Danarius did to you.” He lifted his hand and reached for Fenris’ shoulder but the elf snatched it out of the air.

“It doesn’t take all mages to cause this,” Fenris growled. “Only the weak ones.”

“Not all mages are weak.” Anders protested, snatching his hand back.

“True,” he said, giving the mage a sharp smile. “Hawke, for instance, is not weak.”

Anders gaped at him. “I’m not weak!”

“Your demon is proof of that,” Fenris smirked and crossed his arms over his chest again.

Anders scowled at the elf. “He is not a demon. He is a spirit of Justice and we only joined so I could save him.”

Fenris let out a bark of laughter. “You know nothing of justice. You prattle on about mage rights but I can see right through you.” He took a step closer and gave him a feral grin. “You are consumed by rage.”

Anders stepped backward as if slapped. “Since when is justice happy? Justice is righteous. Justice is hard.”

“Justice is often absent for those who need it most.” He muttered bitterly.

“If you understand that,” Anders began, “then why are you so opposed to mage’s liberation? Every child ever ripped away from his mother to be sent to the circle deserves just as much justice as every slave torn from their mother’s breast at birth.”

“It is not as simple as that mage,” Fenris said, running his hands through his hair. “Magic is dangerous. You are dangerous. Do not fool yourself into thinking we are the same.” 

“We are more alike than you think, whether you like it or not.” Anders insisted. 

“We are nothing alike abomination!” He shouted. 

“But aren’t we?” He began pacing and picking at the fraying edge of his tunic. This wasn’t working- he needed a new angle. He took a deep breath and stilled himself, turning to face Fenris. “Growing up in the Circle, everything is about order and rules and the Templars. Templars don’t see us as people. The Magisters don’t see slaves as people. They don’t care that you were someone’s son… someone’s lover.” 

Tendrils of smoke spiraled around his golden hair and blue lights flickered beneath his skin. His tone deepened as Justice’s voice was superimposed over his own. “If you’re born with magic they hear about it. They search your little rat-spit village and find you. They tell your parents they’ll be thrown in prison if they ever ask about you, stripped of their rights in the eyes of the Maker. And if you run away, they hunt you down. Again and again,” he spat. “Just like Danarius hunts you. And there is always the fear of Tranquility hanging over your head. Nobody deserves that.”

Fenris’ ears flattened against his head. “I know some mages that deserve that.”

“Really? Perhaps they should start making slaves Tranquil- then they wouldn’t dream of escaping! Wouldn’t that be wonderful?” 

“Slaves do not attract demons that try to possess them!” he snarled. 

“Which clearly justifies it? What a perfect solution!” Anders scowled. “The sins of a few should not condemn the lives of the many.”

“You are one to talk.” Fenris snapped, curling his fingers into tight fists. If he was wearing his gauntlets his palms would surely be sliced to ribbons. “Mages in glass houses shouldn’t throw fireballs. You let a demon possess you.”

The cracks finally split through Anders’ skin and the room was flooded with blue as Justice roared to life.  **“I AM NO DEMON.”**

Fenris dropped into a fighting stance after the arrival of Anders’ otherworldly passenger. His markings flared, daring Justice to take a step closer to his death, but Anders’ body went limp. The glowing fissures under his skin dimmed and pulsed faintly. He looked at Fenris with a childlike wonder.

**“You sound like home,”** Justice whispered.

Fenris paused and took a few steps back. Whatever the creature was in front of him, it was oddly calm and complacent- nothing like the demons and he encountered in his travels. It was something different, something unknown, and that fact unnerved him more than any abomination could. 

“Oh Broody!” a voice called from downstairs. “A little bird told me you’ve been holed up in here with a dashing apostate. And well, I had to come and see it for myself.”

Fenris stopped glowing and Anders was released from Justice’s trance. The elf turned tail and left for the foyer, with the mage following close behind. Standing at the door and twirling a lock pick was a dwarf whose beard appeared to have migrated to his chest. Behind him was Hawke with his bright smile, like always. He gasped dramatically and pouted at the dwarf. 

“I’m much bigger than a little bird,” he said.

“You’re a big buffoon is what you are,” Fenris remarked from the top of the staircase before walking down to join them. Anders trailed at a distance, remaining on the outskirts of the group.

“Ah, there you are!” The dwarf said, opening his arms in greeting. Once he caught sight of Anders however, his face split into a toothy grin. “Hawke wasn’t exaggerating for once.”

“I don’t exaggerate!” Hawke grumbled.

The dwarf ignored him and gave Fenris a pat on the back. “You’re truly too kind. You’re practically writing my next novel for me. Imagine,” he thrust his arm in front of him in a wide arc, “two star crossed lovers. One an escaped circle mage, the other an escaped slave. Both on the run who fall head-first into each other’s tender embrace. Hightown would be gossiping about it for weeks.”

Fenris groaned. “You wouldn’t dare.” 

“I make no promises,” the dwarf replied.

“I can’t believe people read your drivel,” the elf said with a shake of his head. 

“You’d be surprised to see what people are willing to read Broody.” He held his hand out to Anders and gave him a firm handshake. “And what’s your name Blondie?”

“Oh! Um… Anders.”

“Varric Tethras. Author, archer-”

“Asshole.” Hawke and Fenris said in unison. 

Varric rolled his eyes. “Now I’m definitely writing that book.”

“What brings you two here?” Fenris asked.

“You actually.” Varric adjusted the crossbow hoisted over his shoulder. “I got wind of a shoddy slaver operation that just arrived in Kirkwall this morning. It could very well be that master you’re looking for- and if not? Well, what’s the harm in killing a few more slavers?”

Fenris nodded eagerly. “Let me put on my armor and I’ll join you.”

“I’ll go get my coat,” Anders added.

Fenris spinned and faced the mage. “You are not coming.”

“Oh yes, I am!”

“Absolutely not!” the elf protested.

“I’m a Warden if you haven’t forgotten. A trained battle mage and spirit healer. You’ll be glad I was there when one of you gets a nasty case of the stabs. It would be stupid not to take me.”

“He’s got a point,” Hawke said.

Overruled, Fenris’ ears drooped slightly. “Fine.” Ignoring the mage, he stormed upstairs to don his armor, while Anders left to fetch his coat.

***

The trip down to the docks left Anders feeling more alive than he had been in the past few days. However, despite the friendly chatter, he couldn’t shake off Fenris' looming shadow as he sulked a few steps behind the group. Every few minutes he would look behind him, only to meet Fenris’ cold stare. 

“So Blondie,” Varric began. “I couldn’t help but overhear that you left the Wardens. What in Thedas possessed you to do that?”

Anders held back a bark of laughter. Something certainly possessed him all right. He decided to go with the safe answer, though not necessarily the most truthful. “Those bastards made me get rid of my cat. Poor Ser Pounce-a-lot.” 

Varric cackled looking at the mage with bewilderment. “You had a cat named Ser Pounce-a-lot? In the Deep Roads? Of course, you did.”

“He was a gift. A noble beast,” he said with a smirk. “Almost got ripped in half by a genlock once. He swatted the bugger on the nose- drew blood too. The blighted Wardens said he ‘made me too soft’. I had to give him to a friend in Amaranthine. That was the last straw. I never looked back since.”

Again, Anders found his gaze trailing to Fenris as he glanced over his shoulder. He noticed that not only was the elf lingering much further behind the group than earlier, but he had completely stopped in the street. He frowned and looked at Hawke who also seemed to have noticed Fenris’ odd behavior. The three of them jogged up to the elf. Anders observed that Fenris was bleeding through the bandages wrapped around his fist.

“Honestly,” the mage scoffed. “You should have just let me heal you.”

“Shut up!” Fenris snapped under his breath. His eyes darted back and forth, searching the rooftops. Confused, Anders followed his line of sight, only to find the point of a crossbow bolt hurtling towards his face. He squeaked and threw up a barrier around the group. A flurry of bolts ricocheted off the arcane shield.

“Looks like the slavers found us before we found them,” Varric said, pulling his crossbow down off his shoulder.

“There are three archers on the rooftop,” Fenris reported. “There are surely more slavers hiding in the shadows.” 

Hawke nodded. “Alright. Anders, I want you to cover us from any attacks from above. Make sure we don’t drop. If you get a clear shot- take it. Varric and I will take the bastards out. Fenris, see if you can flush out anyone hiding down here.” Another barrage of arrows sailed through the air and bounced off Anders' shield. Hawke turned to Anders. “After the next round of arrows, drop the barrier.” Hawke twirled his staff and gave the group a large grin. “They won’t know what hit them.” 

More bolts came flying through the air and clattered to the ground. The four of them burst into a whirlwind of motion. Hawke threw up a shield of his own and moved further into the street. Fire swirled around the tips of his staff. From the screams and stench of burning flesh, Anders knew that Hawke’s spell had found its target. Varric shot off a few bolts at the rooftops before finding some cover by ducking under an awning. Fenris vanished into the inky depths of a nearby alley, only leaving behind a trail of blue light in his wake. Anders felt Justice stir at the sudden surge of lyrium, but Anders directed his attention to the chaos around them.

**Slavers.**

A righteous fury grew in his chest as he prepared a healing spell. His eyes danced between the slavers and his newfound companions, ready to cast at the first sign of blood. Out of the corner of his eye, Anders caught movement. From the south end of the street, there was a fourth archer peeking around the side of a chimney. He raised his bow at Varric’s unguarded back. None the wiser, the dwarf littered the other three slavers with arrows. Anders dropped the healing spell and thrust his staff into the sky, using the well of rage Justice provided to call down a bolt of lighting on the archer before he had a chance to finish nocking his arrow. The slaver dropped, tumbling over the edge of the building and falling onto the cobblestone path with a loud thwack. 

The noise drew Varric’s attention and he saw the charred and smoking remains of what used to be a slaver. He gave the mage a sly smirk. “Thanks, Blondie.”

Anders curtsied. “Any time.”

The clang of metal brought Anders back into the fight and he grabbed his staff tighter. Fenris was dueling two slavers at once, managing to force both of them out of hiding in the alleyway and into the street. Anders was mesmerized. Despite his injury and the cumbersome size of his sword, Fenris was a remarkable warrior. He danced around his enemies, effortlessly blocking their attacks. He was fast and lethal, almost like a cat toying with his prey. Anders felt his heart slamming against his ribcage as he watched their battle. In one swift motion, Fenris impaled one of the slavers through her stomach. He ripped the blade upward, nearly severing the woman in half. He kicked the mangled body and she fell backward onto her comrade, causing his sword to be trapped beneath her corpse. Switching his blade to his injured side, he thrust his other hand through the remaining slaver’s chest and ripped out a fistful of muscle and sinew.

Fenris caught his eye as he threw the heart to the ground. Anders felt a tingle run down his spine and settle somewhere completely inappropriate. Then, Fenris was running towards him, screaming his name. He had never called Anders by his name before. The elf tackled him to the ground, his weight trapping the mage down on the dusty street. That was when Anders saw the rogue. 

Fenris tried lifting his sword to block the dagger, but he wasn’t fast enough. Not with his broken hand. The blade slid between his ribs, as smooth as the bow of a ship cutting through water. Fenris’ breath hissed out of him in a wet gurgle. He let gravity continue carrying his sword in a long arc. The sword found its mark and sliced through the neck of the slaver. The blade clattered onto the cobblestones. The rogue’s head and body followed.

Anders felt the blood thundering in his ears. He tried to lift the elf off of him, but his arms were trapped under spiky armor and a growing pool of blood. He saw Hawke and Varric running towards them. Hawke landed on his knees and skid across the stone path. He pushed the slaver’s corpse off of them before lifting Fenris, freeing Anders. The elf released a strangled gasp. Hawke gently lowered him back to the ground. The mage’s hands gleamed with blue light, but Fenris grabbed his wrist. His grip was feeble and his fingers fluttered against Anders’ pulse point, trying to keep hold.

He tried to speak but all that came out was a wheeze. “No magic.”

The spell sputtered out. “You’ll die,” Anders stammered.

“Please,” he begged. His voice was barely a whisper. Each breath Fenris took was stunted and rattled around in his throat. His skin was nearly as pale as his hair.

“You stupid, idiotic, stubborn elf!” Anders cursed. He frantically looked up at Hawke and Varric. “Does anyone have a health potion!?”

Hawke’s face was almost as white as Fenris. He kneeled frozen, like a statue, staring at the elf at a loss for words.

“No,” Varric mumbled. He looked grim as if he were already attending Fenris’ funeral. Anders wouldn’t allow that. The insufferable elf would live a full life spent killing slavers and pissing of mages if he had any say about it. No, Anders would not give up.

“Help me get his armor off!” he shouted. Varric leaped into action at the order, helping Anders unbuckle and remove his breastplate. He lifted up Fenris’ shirt revealing dozens of intricate white brands that glistened through a coating of blood. Anders began to delicately press and prod at the area around the wound. Despite the Circle’s many failings- he felt Maker blessed that the curriculum for spirit healers included non-magical theory. He felt Fenris’ shrunken lung desperately trying to expand, but being constricted by the pressure built up from the sudden surge of air and blood. Fuck.

“I need a small rod or a pipe- NOW!” 

Hawke remained motionless, his wide eyes never leaving Fenris’ face. Varric dug around in his pack. He pulled out an old smoking pipe with a long stem and shoved it into Anders’ open hand. The mage snapped the bowl off and carefully inserted the tapered edge into the wound. Placing his mouth on the opposite end of the pipe he began to suck. A flood of copper hit his tongue. Copper and lyrium. Anders had a powerful urge to swallow. An urge that was not his own. Justice was present again, lingering on the edge of his consciousness, not quite demanding to take the lead but making sure his desires were known. Anders wasn’t the only one who felt Justice’s presence. Varric startled at the sight of faint wisps of smoke and blue light floating off Anders’ skin.

“Son of a bitch,” the dwarf muttered.

Anders pulled back from the pipe and spit out a mouthful of blood. You are disgusting, he thought.

**It is a fluid like any other.**

He tried not to gag as he returned to sucking the pipe again. He would worry about educating his spirit later on why drinking any blood, especially lyrium laced blood from a grouchy elf was a horrible, no good, very bad idea. He spit out two more mouthfuls of blood before he felt Fenris’ ribs expand again. The elf took a deep gasping breath and Anders let out a shaky laugh.

“That should buy us some time, but we need a healing potion. Varric, meet us at Fenris’ mansion. Bring health potions, medical supplies, whatever you can find and whatever you can carry.” The dwarf nodded and immediately ran back up the street from whence they came. “Hawke, I need your help carrying him.”

There was no response. Anders looked up from where he was keeping steady pressure on Fenris’ wound. Hawke was looking down at him but his eyes were unseeing. 

“Hawke? HAWKE!” Anders removed one of his hands and slapped him square across the face. A red streak of Fenris’ blood spattered across Hawke’s nose. “I can’t have you checking out on me.”

The man blinked a few times as he was forced back into reality. “I- yes… sorry.” 

“Help me pick him up.” Anders began to position himself near Fenris’ legs so Hawke could lift his torso, but Hawke scooped the elf up all by himself like he only weighed 10 pounds soaking wet. Anders grabbed Fenris’ hand and placed it over the wound.

“You need to keep pressure on it, okay?” He said softly.

Fenris groaned something incomprehensible but did as Anders’ asked. His free hand, however, interlaced his fingers with Anders’ and held on tight. 

Anders smiled softly. “I’m right here. You’re going to be okay.” He nodded to Hawke and the three of them left for Fenris’ mansion at a brisk pace. The elf refused to let go of the mage’s hand the entire way.

***

Anders could have kissed Varric when he arrived at the mansion with not only the supplies he had asked for, but also a selection of useful herbs and a surgeon’s kit. He had the dwarf lay all the materials on the bedside table, while Anders poured a health potion down Fenris’ throat. The elf sputtered, but managed to swallow it all down. Anders was pleased to see that the potion worked quickly. Varric clearly brought him a high-quality product. The constant flow of blood had nearly slowed to a halt and the wound looked much shallower than before. The potion had repaired the majority of his internal injuries. Anders poked around the area to confirm his suspicions. Fenris grunted at the pressure, but the color had begun to return to his face and he seemed more aware of his surroundings. 

The elf flopped his head to the side and looked up at Hawke. His brow furrowed. “What happened to your face?” he slurred. Hawke touched his nose and looked at his fingertips which were red with blood. He shared a knowing look with Anders and shrugged. Fenris tried to sit up but Anders placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Stop. You’re going to hurt yourself,” the mage scolded. 

“I’m fine,” he insisted and tried to sit up again. Anders forced him down, which normally would have been a trial, but Fenris just sunk back into the bed. 

“Healing potions don’t magically solve everything, you dimwit. You still have a gaping hole in your chest.” 

Fenris frowned and looked at his bloody wound as if it were a minor inconvenience to his day. “Just give me another one and I’ll be good to go.”

“Another one?” Anders gaped at him. “Do you know how dangerous elf root extract is in high quantities? If you want to poison yourself, be my guest.” 

Fenris glared at him, but settled back into the pillows with a huff.

“I didn’t think so. Now I need you to lie back. I have to disinfect the wound.” Anders plucked a small bottle of alcohol and a clean rag from the surgeon’s kit. He hesitated for a second before removing the leather belt from around his waist and offering it to Fenris. “You are going to want to bite on this. It’s going to hurt like a bitch.”

The elf reluctantly put the belt between his teeth. The moment he did, Anders dampened the cloth and began cleaning the wound. The second he made contact Fenris seized up and let out a wretched howl. He flung his arm out on reflex and his elbow connected with Anders’ temple. 

“Hold him down!” Anders yelled.

Both Hawke and Varric secured Fenris’ arms and legs. His sudden movement from before had irritated the wound and more blood gushed out. Anders quickly and efficiently disinfected the area. This wasn’t his first violent patient and it wouldn’t be his last.

Once the burning subsided and Fenris stopped struggling, the two men released him. He spat out the belt and Anders was disappointed but not surprised to discover that his favorite belt now had bite marks embedded in it. Lovely.

He looked over to Hawke and Varric. “You’re welcome to stay with him if you like- but truthfully he needs his rest. He will be bedridden for at least a few days until he can take another health potion and then possibly more to make sure he doesn’t get an infection. We might be looking at about a week where he will be out of commission.”

“A week!?” Fenris snarled. Unfortunately for him, it was difficult to be intimidating when the elf could barely draw in enough air to speak over a whisper.

“Yes, a week. You said no magic so you get to live with the consequences of your choices,” Anders sneered as he grabbed a needle and thread. “This will suck, but you’re a big boy and I think you can handle it.”

Fenris scowled at Anders, but when wasn’t he looking at the mage with complete and utter disdain? Anders ignored him and instead focused his energy on stitching up the wound. Fenris winced and grabbed a fistful of the bedsheets, but to his credit, he remained still.

“We’ll see ourselves out,” Varric said, nudging Hawke with his elbow. “We can go look at the bodies and see if Danarius was behind this.”

“Ah, right. I’ll stop by tomorrow Fenris.” He gave the elf a weak smile before following the dwarf out of the bedroom.

Anders nodded absentmindedly, barely noticing their departure as he continued sewing. When he finished his last stitch he gave Fenris a stern look. “I know you hate the idea of it, but you really need to take it easy and rest. Really rest. I don’t think you understand how serious this injury was. If I wasn’t there you would have suffocated to death, if the blood loss and shock didn’t get to you first.”

Fenris grimaced and stiffly nodded his head. “I understand.”

“Good.” Anders fetched a roll of bandages. As he carefully wrapped his wound, Anders frowned and bit his lip.

“If you have something to say mage, say it.”

“Oh um…” Anders fumbled with the bindings, nearly dropping the roll. He recovered and secured the final wrappings in place. He leaned back from Fenris and sat on the bed near his feet. The mage stared at his bloodstained hands. “You saved me. Why?” he whispered.

Fenris closed his eyes and remained silent for a long time. Anders almost thought that he had fallen asleep when he opened them again. Green eyes met brown and Anders thought that for a brief second he could see past the walls the other man had built up, but Fenris immediately broke eye contact and gazed at the ceiling instead.

“Despite how irritating you are,” the elf began, “Hawke was right. I do need you.”

Anders had many choice words to say to that. Most began with, ‘well, first of all, fuck you’, but he bit back any harsh remarks. The mage had asked for honesty and honesty was what he received, insults and all. He stood from the bed to gather and organize the scattered items from the end table. “Well, for what it’s worth. Thank you.”

Fenris’ eyes left the ceiling and settled on the mage. He watched him as he cleared the space. To say Anders looked drained would be using kind terms. The man was disheveled, exhausted, and covered in blood. His blood. “I suppose I should thank you for saving my life as well.” 

Anders stalled and looked at his patient, his mouth opening but words faltering. Fenris tried to lift himself into a sitting position and Anders promptly dropped his supplies to help him get comfortable.

“You really should sleep,” he muttered.

“I will,” he said. “But…” Fenris mumbled something in Tevene, too fast for Anders to catch. “I have a proposition.”

The mage chuckled weakly. “I’m starting to be wary of those.”

Fenris let out a wheeze, that could have been a laugh if one looked hard enough. He cleared his throat and turned to Anders. “We will be spending a lot of time together in the upcoming weeks if you truly intend to stay here and help me kill Danarius. We need to work together, and that will be particularly hard to do if we are at each other’s throats each morning. I know your stance on magic and you know mine. I propose we hold our tongues on the topic.”

“That might be for the best,” Anders sighed.

Fenris held out his injured hand. “Do we have a deal?”

“Yes. On one condition.” The mage pointed at the elf’s bloody bandages. “Please let me take care of that properly.”

Fenris flinched and jerked his hand back. “No.”

Anders’ eyes widened. “No! Not with magic. I meant…” He gestured to his medical gear. “You know?”

Fenris cautiously extended his hand again and nodded. Anders began by tenderly taking the elf’s hand into his own and then, bit by bit, he removed the blood crusted wrappings. He was surprised to find that the mage’s touch was extremely delicate, although he assumed he hadn’t given him much of an opportunity to prove himself to be gentle when he was thrashing about earlier. Fenris closed his eyes and let himself be lulled to sleep under the warmth and soft touch of the healer’s hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!   
> Writing this fic has taken up a huge part of my life recently and has revived a love for writing and storytelling that has been lying dormant for a while. My appreciation for every kudos and comment left on this story is beyond words. I do my best to share my thanks but it truly does not sum up my gratitude. Knowing that other people are as excited about this story as I am has been a gift.   
> If you enjoyed this chapter and are interested in reading the next one, please feel free to subscribe, leave kudos, or just leave a comment saying hi. I always love hearing from you and I'm always down to make new friends! You can never have enough Dragon Age in your life.
> 
> Thanks again for reading and stay lovely!
> 
> P.S. This was my first time writing a battle scene EVER. Trying to research medieval methods of treating a collapsed lung was a nightmare! It was so stressful but I'm glad I pushed through it and came up with something that is hopefully as thrilling as I intended it to be. 
> 
> P.P.S Honestly at this point I don't know if it is supposed to be P.P.S or P.S.S and I'm too afraid to ask... Anyways! Life is stable now- well as stable as it can be, during a pandemic. No threats of homelessness, no loss of income. Just a slightly overworked, and very tired artist excited to get back to working in a costume shop once the world is a safer place. Thank you to everyone who has been wishing me well through these trying times! I hope you are all safe as well. 
> 
> Love,   
> Kai


	5. A Change In Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders settles into his role as a healer, while Fenris' thoughts begin to wander towards strange places.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised another chapter and I delivered! I hope you are all enjoying the journey I am taking you on. We have a long road ahead of us and I'm excited to share it with you!

Fenris woke with a start and a sharp pain deep in his chest. The world was burning and he was the kindling. “Mage,” he wheezed. He tried to kick the bedsheets off of himself but to no avail. “Mage!”

“What?” Anders stumbled into his room, dripping wet with a towel hurriedly wrapped around his waist. “Oh shit.”

Fenris was covered in a layer of sweat. It looked as if he were drowning among the mounds of pillows and fine linen sheets. Anders joined him at the bed and placed the back of his hand on the elf’s forehead.

“You’re burning up.” The towel slipped slightly with the loss of his hand to hold it up but the mage quickly caught it and held it more securely. “I’ll be right back.”

Anders couldn’t have been gone for longer than a few minutes, but it felt like eons to Fenris. The fabric was sticking to his skin, fusing with him. He kicked his leg up, recklessly, desperately, but the only thing he got in return for his efforts was an increased throbbing from his wound. He tried looking down but it was covered by the damned bedsheets. Then the realization hit him. But of course. He had arms, didn’t he? Marvelous appendages, arms. Much better than useless, no good, sheet bound legs. He threw the blankets off of him. They didn’t go nearly as far as he liked, but briefly the heat felt bearable. He looked down at the bandages to see that they had blossomed red with fresh blood. The mage wouldn’t like that. 

When Anders returned he was wearing a pair of loose fitted cotton trousers and was carrying a damp rag. He scowled upon seeing the elf. “Maker’s balls Fenris. You ripped your stitches again. You’re not supposed to move.” He helped him into a sitting position and removed the rest of the sheets. Fenris sighed softly and wiggled his toes. Free at last. The mage laid the cloth over Fenris’ forehead and the elf jerked at the sudden cold. 

“It’s just water, you big baby,” Anders said as he dabbed the rag over his face. 

Fenris leaned into his touch. Water was so good. So good. But the pain was still there, pulsing through him, raking through his brands and into his lungs. “Mage it hurts,” he whined.

Ander’s frown deepened. Fenris decided he didn’t like it. “You shouldn’t be in pain,” the mage said puzzled. “The drugs are supposed to last until dinnertime.”

“It’s harder with lyrium,” the elf mumbled. “Potions, alcohol, it never works like it should.”

“You should have said something!” scolded Anders. “I could have increased the dose!” He stood and dashed to Fenris’ desk. Well, it was more like Anders’ desk now. After the first night of his injury the mage had taken over and transformed it into a pop-up clinic. He started mumbling to himself as he rummaged through the herbs. “I can’t believe I missed it. It makes sense. The lyrium must supercharge your metabolism. No wonder you drink so much, you can’t get drunk unless you do so in excess.” 

He started throwing ingredients into what looked like a little black cauldron. There was a pinch of this, a few sprigs of that, and a drop of Maker knows what before Anders began grinding it all together with a little stone cylinder. Fenris didn’t pretend to comprehend the mage’s methods, he only cared if it worked. The cold rag was helping, but now that he was awake, all he could focus on was the waves of pain. Every labored breath was accompanied by a burning sensation that did nothing to quell the inescapable heat consuming him. 

“Distract me. Talk. Do something,” Fenris begged through gritted teeth.

Anders chewed at his bottom lip as he ground the medicine into a paste. “Well, last night I heard a kitten, and it’s not like I could look outside or anything because the windows are all boarded up… So I sort of broke into the garden.”

“All this for a cat?” the elf wondered.

“Of course!” 

“Were you successful?”

Anders pouted. “No.”

Fenris laughed and tensed at the sudden agony it caused. He wanted to breathe through the pain but he knew it would only make it worse. He hated to admit it, but the mage’s fascination with cats was almost cute. If cute could be attributed to a possessed mage. Yet oddly enough that seemed to be the case. Or maybe it was just the fever. That seemed more likely to Fenris. He could hardly think, let alone rationalize the direction his thoughts had strayed to. The elf squeezed his eyes shut and tried to pace himself through the pain. He had managed to count to 203 before he felt something smooth press against his lips.

“Drink,” said Anders, and Fenris did

The first two gulps were miserable. The liquid smelled like wet dirt and sulfur. If he were to eat either of those things, he assumed it would taste just like the mage’s concoction as well. By the third gulp, his senses had dulled and he could no longer taste the putrid potion. He felt the heat drain out of his pores, while the pain in his body became a faint memory. He sagged into the piles of pillows cocooning him. Everything was pleasantly numb, he didn’t even feel the ache of his markings. 

“Thank you,” Fenris whispered. Upon opening his eyes he saw Anders hovering over him, but it was not the mage he expected. Anders’ wet hair curled around his face like a golden halo and the way the sun fell through the skylight gave his body a faint silver outline.

“Better?” The mage gave him a bright smile. Everything about him was bright and blinding and all-together painful to look at but Fenris couldn’t tear his eyes away. 

He nodded and returned the cup to Anders. “What time is it?”

“About midday.” The mage placed the cup on the bedside table and dropped to his knees where he began methodically removing the old bandages. As each layer unraveled the bloodstain began to grow and spread.

“Did I miss Hawke?"

“Nope, you’re all good,” Anders said as he threw the soiled bandages into a pile. “He should be by stopping by later.” 

Fenris smiled. Hawke’s visits were the only thing he had to look forward to during his bed rest. It was not as if the mage didn’t try to keep his enforced rest interesting. Fenris and Anders had formed a truce after all, but they did not have the easy camaraderie that Hawke and Fenris had. Not to say that they didn’t speak! The two men held pleasant enough conversation, but for the most part, Fenris was left alone to his own devices and he was dreadfully bored. 

As promised, Hawke had returned the day following Fenris’ little incident, bringing food and gifts. He had visited every day since, always with some sort of trinket for the two of them. Yesterday it was a quill, inkwell, and parchment for Anders, while Fenris received a bundle of freshly picked green apples. He only stayed for about an hour, but the elf treasured that respite from boredom more than any gift Hawke could bring him. 

“All done,” said the mage, drawing Fenris out of his thoughts. Anders’ hands were covered in blood again and the elf noticed new stitches decorated his wound but Fenris hadn’t felt a single thing. The mage used the damp rag to wipe the blood off of Fenris’ skin and his own hands, before taking fresh bandages and wrapping them around the wound. Anders stood and took the old bandages and the elf’s abandoned cup to his desk. 

It was then, without the pain to distract him, that Fenris recognized that the mage was shirtless and had been for quite some time. Skinny as he was, Anders had put on some weight since coming to Kirkwall. Instead of looking like a drowned kitten, he rather resembled the ex Grey Warden he claimed to be. Though he didn’t particularly like the man, he couldn’t deny that he understood why Danarius wanted him. He had always liked pretty things and Anders was objectively pretty. It was just a distanced observation, and there was no reason for Fenris to think more into it. Fenris couldn’t blame himself for looking, could he? There was hardly anything interesting to look at in the room, and the mage wasn’t painful to look at. 

Ander’s skin was still wet from his afternoon bath, and the water glinted off the angles of his chest and waist in a completely unbecoming fashion. Reddish-gold hair lightly covered his chest, and as Fenris cast his eyes downward, he found another trail of hair leading down further, disappearing under the waistband of the mage’s trousers, which were definitely too loose and did not leave much for the imagination. Not that Fenris wanted to imagine anything. Then, Anders turned around, and Fenris’ gaze which was already lower than what was considered polite, was gifted with a perfect view of the mage's ass. The elf’s cheeks flushed a deep red and he looked up and away before he could develop any more unusual commentary about the mage’s body. His eyes landed on Anders’ back and all previous incriminating thoughts fled him. 

The scars were just as vivid and gnarled as they were a week ago as they wrapped around the mage’s shoulders and draped down his spine like a twisted shawl. Fenris was speaking before he even knew he had opened his mouth. “Who did that to you?”

“Did what?” Anders asked as he tossed the old bandages into a bucket to be washed later.

“Your back.”

Anders looked over his shoulder with an expression of utter bewilderment, then as realization hit him, his face went slack and his body tensed up. He swiftly spun around and plastered a very wide, and very forced smile onto his face. “Oh you know, just shenanigans in the Deep Roads.”

Fenris considered Anders and spoke softly and slowly. “I was a slave once, mage. Do you think I have never seen scars from a whip before?”

Anders pressed his mouth into a thin line and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I’m sure you’ve seen it many times before.” 

“I have,” he replied. The mage looked so lost and exposed. Fenris didn’t know what to say or what he could do to make it better. He wanted to, but knew firsthand that no words could erase the pain and the memories embedded into his skin. But empathy, Fenris knew, could be a useful tool to let one know that they were not alone in their suffering. 

He took a deep breath. “I never felt the brunt of the whip myself, Danarius had far more creative punishments, however he did particularly enjoy using me as the might behind the whip. No one hits quite as hard as a man with lyrium heightened strength.” 

Anders opened his mouth a few times, failing to find a response before a strangled “I’m sorry.” stumbled out. The mage looked away and bit his lip.

Fenris felt incredibly stupid and had to fight the urge to smack his forehead into his palm. He had hoped his words would foster a bond, or possibly an understanding between shared experiences. He always said the wrong things. He should have kept his mouth shut. “You do not have to tell me mage, I was only curious. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“You don’t need to apologize! It is just… odd is all.” Anders sunk into the desk chair and wrapped his arms tighter around himself. “No one has seen them before other than those who gave them to me. No one but you… Well, I suppose Hawke could have seen them if he were paying attention, but I think he was more preoccupied with making sure he didn’t drop that pillow.” The mage chuckled slightly. Even as rattled as he was, the humor felt genuine.

“But not…” Fenris struggled to remember the name of Anders’ partner. “Uh, not your lover?”

“Karl? We’re not-” Anders sighed, giving up that train of thought. “It happened while we were separated. And since we are no longer intimate like that… No, just my two favorite kidnappers.”

“Did someone in the Circle do that to you?” Fenris asked, already fearing he knew what the answer would be.

“I’m afraid telling you would sort of be breaking our truce.”

“We were bound to break it sooner or later,” Fenris pointed out.

“I was hoping for longer than four days,” retorted Anders.

Fenris shrugged. “Peace is overrated.”

Anders cracked a smile and the tension melted from the taut line in his shoulders. “Was that a joke?” he asked with a rapidly growing grin. “I’m proud of you Broody.”

Fenris groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Please, not you too.”

“The nickname is accurate, whether you like it or not,” he teased.

“I could never admit to liking it.” He said, voice deep and face set into a serious frown. It was a look that put all other brooding to shame. “What would happen to poor Varric? His head is already inflated as it is, if it grew any more he wouldn’t be able to fit through the door.”

Anders laughed, loudly and full of heart. Fenris could see the way his eyes crinkled at the corner and the way his nose scrunched up as this brief blip of joy surged through the mage. Anders leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, then his chin on his fists. Anders sat there, drawing the elf in with that ever so bright smile of his and Fenris thought it was funny that the man who gave his breath back was stealing it away again. 

“You’re...not what I expected,” Anders admitted.

“I could say the same to you," Fenris replied, and he was surprised to realize he meant it.

Anders bit his lip and leaned back, tucking his feet up into the chair. “I like this. This easy banter, the laughing. I don’t want to go back to screaming at each other if I tell you about it.”

“I can not promise we will never fight while you stay here mage. We disagree on very fundamental topics, both which are close to home. That is sure to bring out a more… aggressive side in both of us.” Fenris wet his lips. “However, I have asked to hear your story and I will listen to it, quietly and without comment.”

Anders ran a hand through his wet hair, forcing his fingers through any knots they snagged on. “It is neither a short, nor a pretty story.”

“I do not expect scars like that to have a pretty story behind them.” 

Anders took a deep breath and looked determinedly at Fenris. “I tried escaping the Circle a lot when I was younger. But, then I got older and I met Karl, and well, for a while I didn’t want to run anymore. The Templars found out about our relationship and transferred him here in Kirkwall, and I was… alone. I tried to run away and join him nearly every week for three months after that.” 

The mage began to nervously pick at his fingers. “Truthfully most of my attempts were not well thought out and I didn’t get past my quarters let alone out of the tower. But, when I did escape, well, I’m sure it was a big bit of trouble for the Templars to get me back.” The edge of his mouth quirked up. “Imagine this stupid scrawny mage forcing all of these big men and women in armor into a giant game of tag for the majority of the summer, just for them to end up finding me in a brothel in Denerim.” 

That image lingered behind his eyes and Fenris found that his list of questions for the man in front of him only seemed to grow. But like he promised, he kept his mouth shut and let Anders finish his story.

“But I got older, and I was no longer that scrawny boy anymore- I was a man. I was harrowed to many a Templar’s disappointment, and then the punishments for my escapes changed. By then I was no longer a little mageling apprentice of foolish desires and untapped powers. No, I was a threat to all that the Chantry holds dear. First came the beatings, then came the whip, then came…” His eyes unfocused, lost in another time before they snapped back to where Fenris was sitting. “Then came everything else.” 

The elf frowned. “Why did they not simply let you transfer to Kirkwall as well?”

“Because, people with power can be cruel, as you very well know. Men and women who have the capacity for cruelty and the power to enact it will do so if given the opportunity, not just mages.”

“Magic can be crueler than the whip.” 

“I’m sure it can. No- I know it can, but… I don’t want to argue with you Fenris,” the mage said with a heavy sigh.

“I apologize. I made a promise to you and I still couldn’t hold my tongue.” The elf berated himself.

“It’s okay,” Anders said with a shrug.

“No, it is not,” Fenris insisted. “I am a man of my word and I broke it thoughtlessly. I am sorry that you were hurt. They should have just transferred you, there was no need to cause you any pain.”

The mage gave him a sad smile. “There is never a need for it, but when people want to cause pain, they find a means, don’t they?”

Fenris wholeheartedly agreed, and when he looked into Anders’ eyes it was as if he were staring into his own. The mage stood from the desk chair and took a hesitant step towards him. There was a pounding in the elf’s chest to the beat of a steady drum, picking up pace, picking up volume, up and up and- Soft humming floated through Fenris’ open bedroom door and Anders staggered back. Hawke poked his head through the doorway. He still had the streak of blood across his nose to Anders’ dismay. It had been four days since the incident and Hawke refused to stop painting a red mark over his nose, exactly where Fenris’ blood had been. The mage felt incredibly guilty about slapping him, but Hawke insisted that it made him look more dashing.

“Ah you’re awake!” Hawke grinned and entered the room with both hands kept hidden behind his back. “So I’m sure you’re both horribly bored, and I have come to change that!” 

Hawke swung his arms forward and thrust two books in front of him. The first copy was bound in red leather covered in a gold-leafed illustration of an elephant with his trunk being bitten by a crocodile. The inscription across the cover was also in gold and in large flowing script. The second book was small and bound with faded blue linen. This cover had no images, only the infuriating markings that Fenris could not read.

Hawke presented the red book to Anders. “My father read this to me and my brother and sister when we were little- I think you’ll like the story about the cat who walked by himself.” 

Anders gingerly took the book and beamed at Hawke. “Thank you.”

Fenris knew that look. He himself was guilty of it on many occasions. That was the look of a man who had been completely taken in by Garret Hawke. He didn’t know why he was surprised, Hawke had that effect on nearly everyone. It was hard not to be charmed by him. He just wished the mage hadn’t subcumbed to it like all the others. Then Hawke was looking at him with his dazzling smile and Fenris forgot all about the mage.

Hawke grabbed the plush armchair that he had claimed for his visits and pulled it to the side of his bed. “This is a book by Shartan. I thought it might be an interesting read while you’re stuck in here. Hopefully it will be more entertaining than being at each other’s throats all the time.”

Fenris returned Hawke’s easy smile, though he knew the book would sit abandoned in the corner of the room, treasured, but without ever having its purpose fulfilled. “That would be a nice change of pace.”

Anders pulled his book close to his bare chest. “Well, I’ll leave you to it.” Then he turned, and left the room. Fenris had the distinct feeling that he was leaving their conversation as well, in the past to be forgotten. Oddly, Fenris didn’t want it to be.

“Does he always walk around shirtless like that?” Hawke asked and leaned forward, nearly whispering in the elf’s ear until the mage was out of sight.

“What? No.”

“That’s a shame,” he sighed as he leaned back into the armchair. “He’s not bad on the eyes.”

“I thought you were here to visit me, not to drool over the healer,” said Fenris, arching his eyebrow.

Hawke leaned forward again and wiggled his eyebrows mischievously. “What if I said I came to drool over you?” 

“Then I would say that you and Dog have a lot in common,” the elf said with a wry smile.

“Like father, like son,” Hawke said proudly.

“Although,” Fenris amended. “Dog is considerably smarter.”

Hawke smacked Fenris’ arm playfully and the elf’s entire body rocked to the side. Thanks to Anders’ potion, the elf felt only a slight build of pressure. Hawke’s eyes however, nearly popped out of his head and his hands hovered over Fenris’ arm as if he could soothe away the pain through sheer will. “Oh shit, I’m so sorry.”

“I am fine, Hawke.”

“No, you’re not fine!” He dragged his hand down his face. “You could have died Fenris. You would have died if it weren’t for Anders. Maker, even with him there it was a close call. Why didn’t you just let him heal you? You’ve said yourself that magic has its uses? Why not use it?!”

“You have been holding back that lecture for a while now have you?” Fenris joked.

“It’s not funny. You scared me…” Hawke placed his hand on top of Fenris’. His hand was large and warm, covered in calluses from years of hard labor, and twirling his staff.

Fenris sighed. “I know. I apologize. I suppose I do owe you an explanation.” The elf squeezed Hawke’s hand and took comfort in the familiarity and strength of his closest friend. “These markings, whether Danarius intended it or not, have given me the ability to feel magic when in close proximity. When that magic is used on me, I feel it ten-fold within the lyrium. It is… extremely painful. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was a purposeful side effect intended to keep me in line.” 

“Fuckin’ Danarius,” Hawke grunted.

Fenris nodded in agreement. 

Hawke began tracing the back of Fenris’ hand with his thumb. “What is my magic like?”

“Hot and wild. An inferno barely contained.”

“Merril?”

“Her magic is suffocating and as cold as ice. Practically the opposite of yours. It has the illusion of control.” 

“Anders?”

“Like sparks and heavy rain,” he mumbled before he could catch himself. 

Hawke nodded thoughtfully. “You know, we played Wicked Grace last night at the Hanged Man and it truly wasn’t the same without you.”

Fenris was relieved by the change in topic. He didn’t want to think about Anders’ magical aura, or whatever mumbo jumbo the witch would have called it. “Missed me winning your coin?”

“I miss you being able to take Isabella down a notch. She sends her regards by the way and insists she would come and visit in person if it wasn’t for whats-her-face and whats-his-face she’s been fucking the past few days.”

Fenris chuckled. “Of course.”

Hawke straightened up, suddenly remembering. “She also has another color for you today.”

“Hit me.”

“Periwinkle.”

Fenris leaned his head back against the pillow with a cocky smirk on his face. “Wrong again.”

  
  


***

When Fenris agreed to let Anders borrow his desk, on the night following his injury for healing purposes, he didn’t realize how much he would regret the deal. It seemed to be an innocent enough arrangement in the beginning, but as day became night and Hawke had long returned to his own home, it became very difficult to focus on anything but the mage. Without anything to entertain himself Fenris had been reduced to counting the cracks in the walls. However, he couldn’t even focus on that properly as every few seconds he was interrupted by the incessant scratching of a quill or Anders ceaselessly mumbling under his breath. The mage had written three drafts of whatever nonsense he was composing, and by the time he was crumpling the fourth sheet of parchment into a ball, the elf could no longer hold his curiosity back. 

“Is your writing really that bad?”

Anders jumped, having completely forgotten that Fenris was in the bed behind him. “Ah, no. I’m just having difficulty phrasing everything right so that Karl doesn’t come rushing back here.”

Fenris narrowed his eyes. “You are writing to Karl?” 

“Of course,” said the mage as he laid out a sheet of parchment for his fifth draft. “He needs to know I’m safe.”

“No.”

Anders looked up from his writing and blinked slowly. “What?”

“You could be sending him information,” Fenris explained.

“Seriously? If you don’t trust me you can read it for yourself,” the mage said, returning to his letter and writing with aggressive strokes. Fenris’ face flushed, knowing full well he couldn’t do such a thing even if he tried.

“It might be in code,” he protested.

“Code!?” The tip of Anders’ quill snapped leaving a large blot of ink on the parchment. “I really thought we were past this. Do you trust me so little?”

“We have a truce. It does not mean I will blindly trust you.”

“Fine! I’ll do something else,” Anders took the parchment and ripped it in half. The two halves fluttered to the floor and rested among the other pieces of crumpled paper. The mage stomped on them as he grabbed the book Hawke had given him and made his way across the room. He settled into the armchair that had been returned to the corner of the room after Hawke left. The mage muttered something under his breath about foolishly paranoid elves while flipping through the pages of the book. He must have found what he was looking for because he abruptly stopped and sunk back into the chair with a huff. At last it was silent but Fenris couldn't return to counting riveting crack number 12. He knew it was unfair to yell at the mage like that. Fenris’ shortcomings were not Anders’ fault. His unkind words spun in his head. The truth was that he did trust the mage. Although foolish and dangerous Anders may be, he had proved himself to be a kind and gentle man when healing Fenris. He had saved the elf’s life after all, not plotted to end it. As he watched the mage read, his mind tumbled further, his thoughts growing only thorns. Then, the mage snorted and shook his head with a smile as he turned a page.

“What is so funny?” asked Fenris.

Anders stiffened and looked up from his book, eyeing the elf cautiously. “It’s just a very accurate portrayal of a cat.” 

Fenris shifted in the bed, avoiding his gaze. “Would you care to enlighten me?”

The mage stared at him blankly for a moment and Fenris truly wanted to punch himself. He was truly a fool, a complete idiot, an absolute-

“Okay.” Anders stood and dragged the chair closer to Fenris’ bed so that the elf could lean over and see the illustrations. The mage cleared his throat and began to read. “Hear and attend and listen; for this befell and behappened and became and was, O my Best Beloved, when the Tame animals were wild.”

Anders spoke quietly at first, but as the story continued, his voice grew in volume and confidence. He even started doing voices for the characters, whether he was conscious that he was doing it, the elf couldn’t tell. Fenris felt his mind fade into the background until all he saw was the clever cat as it sauntered beneath the moonlight. As the story came to an end and the image began to dissipate, Fenris couldn’t help but feel a profound sense of hollowness.

“But when he has done that, and between times, and when the moon gets up and night comes, he is the Cat that walks by himself, and all places are alike to him. Then he goes out to the Wet Wild Woods or up the Wet Wild Trees or on the Wet Wild Roofs, waving his wild tail and walking by his wild lone.” Anders closed the book, and it was just the two of them, shoulder to shoulder staring at the red cover. Fenris tore his eyes from the book and the squiggles he would never understand and looked at Anders. The mage looked back at him with a soft smile, all previous crimes forgiven and forgotten. All of that wonder lived behind leather and paper and Fenris would never have known if it weren’t for Anders.

“Could you read it again?” Fenris asked hesitantly.

“If you liked it so much I can lend it to you so you can have something to do while you’re stuck in bed.” 

Fenris didn’t know if it was the mage’s eager grin, or gentle touch as he placed the book into the elf’s hands but something in him snapped. Fenris tossed the book as if the leather had burned his hands. It soared through the air and collided with the wall creating crack number 13. “Do you mock me?”

“What?!” Anders snapped.

“Do you think they teach slaves to read?” he snarled.

Anders mouth fell open in a soft ‘oh’, and instantly his outrage vanished. “It’s not too late to learn Fenris”

“Is that what this is? Let’s teach the poor slave to read?”

“No! I just-”

“Forget it.” Fenris spat, crossing his arms over his chest. “You are not responsible for my deficiencies.” 

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Anders said

The elf disagreed. His fingers twitched against the bedsheets as his eyes landed on the book. It was a monstrous thing for him to do. It rested on the floor, the pages crumpled and the spine broken. He had done that to something that only moments before he thought of with wild adoration. He felt his stomach lurch as guilt made its home there. Everywhere he went destruction followed. “I apologize. I should not have thrown it.”

Anders stood to collect the book. He picked it up gingerly, smoothing out the pages. “You know, many people are unable to read. My father couldn’t before he met my mother. Besides, literacy isn’t an indication of intelligence.” His cheeks reddened. “You speak with an eloquence that not many men possess. You also know the Trade Tongue and Tevene which is no small feat.”

With a small smirk Fenris added, “I also speak Qunlat and enough Orlesian to follow a conversation between diplomats.”

“Show off,” Anders chuckled. “You are a very intelligent man, Fenris, I hope you know that.”

“Thank you mage…” Fenris felt the guilt curl deeper into his abdomen, burrowing into his flesh and taking root. “I act like a child and yet you still treat me with kindness.”

Anders shrugged. “I’ve had worse patients. Try wrestling a five year old with a splinter. Slippery little bastards.”

“I didn’t realize the bar was so low.”

Anders laughed and traced the letters printed on the cover of the book. “Would you- would you like me to teach you? I mean it would be something to do until you are fully healed. Sitting around all day must be quite boring.” He babbled. “You know, in the Circle I was a pretty good teacher! I always got paired up with the apprentices, especially the little ones, they thought it might teach me responsibility or som-“

“Yes,” Fenris said immediately. The guilt surged through him, rolling around in waves. Why must he always take advantage of the kindness in others? He did not deserve it.

“Oh?” Hope glittered behind the mage’s eyes, and it would have been an injustice to destroy that as well.

“Yes, I would like that very much.”

“Wonderful!” Anders’ eyes lit up and Fenris could already see the lesson plans forming. A soft smile rested on the elf’s face as he watched the mage gesture animatedly. “We can begin tomorrow. I’ll have Hawke fetch some charcoal to start with and you can use my quill when your handwriting improves!” 

There it was again, his shame, bubbling over and crawling out of his throat in a desperate attempt to rectify his lies and hateful words. “I do trust you.”

Anders stumbled over his words losing his train of thought. 

“You can write to Karl. I trust you.” 

Anders’ grin grew even wider and he grabbed Fenris’ hand, the non injured one of course, and gave it a squeeze. “Thank you.” His smile, and his bright eyes were so brilliant it hurt to behold and Fenris looked away, coughing. 

“Are you okay?” Anders asked, dropping into healer mode.

“I am fine, mage,” Fenris said, changing the subject. “You seem to have enjoyed your time as a teacher in the Circle.” 

“I did. I love kids. Always wanted a flock of my own one day.”

Fenris had a vivid image of five miniature Anders, running about, chasing cats, and causing havoc. “Any children of yours would be a handful.” 

Anders laughed. “I can’t say I disagree. I was always a wild child. Maker, I was awful as a teenager. In the Circle all of the apprentices are housed by age and gender, as if that could stop a bunch of horny teens. I must admit I was quite a slut,” he said with a sly grin. “I probably could find every single storage closet at Kinloch Hold with my eyes closed.”

“Was Karl ever one of your exploits?” Fenris asked. “I apologize for assuming, but you seemed, close.”

“Karl was never that… he was more.” Anders shook himself out of his melancholy thoughts. “Although to be fair, he knows more about the storage closets now because of me. There wasn’t really a lot of privacy you know, with a big group of us shoved into each room, but once I found this naughty spell right? And-” His face flushed red, “Maker I’m sorry that’s inappropriate.” 

“No need to apologize. Your tales are tame compared to a friend of mine,” the elf assured. “She is a pirate and her stories could make even the most hardened sailor blush.”

“Good. I’m sorry I thought I might have overstepped some boundaries. Sometimes my mouth starts speaking before my brain can catch up with it.”

“I completely understand,” Fenris mused. “Do you miss him?”

Anders sighed and hugged the book close. “I do, terribly.” 

The elf’s chest got tighter and he coughed trying to free up the pain from his wound but it didn’t work. 

“Well, hopefully I’ll get the chance to kill Danarius soon and you can get home to him.” Fenris smiled at the mage, but it never reached his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!  
> I know I say it after every chapter, but I really do appreciate every single one of you. This fic has been a huge source of joy and creative energy for me and I am so honored that I get to share my work with all of you.   
> If you enjoyed this chapter and are interested in reading the next one, please feel free to subscribe, leave kudos, or just leave a comment saying hi.
> 
> Thanks again for reading and stay lovely!
> 
> !FUN FACT!  
> The story Anders reads to Fenris is called "The Cat That Walked By Himself" and it is by Rudyard Kipling from "Just So Stories". My father read that book to me when I was a child and when I got older I would read the stories to him on the car ride home when he picked me up from school. It is a huge sentimental favorite and I recommend that everyone reads at least one of the stories from the book!


	6. There’s A Beast Running Wild

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Karl receives a letter and Danarius sets a plot in motion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello I'm back!  
> I know it has been a while but I promise that I am still working on this story. Basically I lost my beta-reader for the previous chapters and was scrambling to find a new one. But by the time I got one I was hit with a good, old fashioned, depressive spiral. Mental illness sucks, but I'm pushing through it and trying to remind myself how writing this fic has given me a lot of joy and creative energy. Anywayyys- I want to give a huge thank you to Lesetoilesfous for not only being my beta-reader for this chapter but for also being a huge supporter of my writing from the very beginning. If you want to read another great fic, try A Song Of Love From Long Ago. Her writing is amazing, of course, and she updates regularly! <3  
> With that being said, I hope you enjoy this chapter.

The boy had been a deckhand for the better part of a year. He was the youngest and was always given the most tedious and menial of chores on The Meridian. When they made port, he was always the last crew member allowed to leave the ship and discover what revels the city held.

They had docked in Port Clara Mare at first light and he already had mountains of work to complete before he was free to explore Minrathous. By late afternoon, the boy was on his final task; to deliver a letter to a Mr. Karl Thekla, who could be found within a clinic hidden in the Liberati slums. 

It was the boy’s first time in Tevinter since The Meridian usually traveled to Antiva or Rivain for trade. He was horribly lost. As he made it deeper into the slums, the more reclusive and less helpful its inhabitants became. The boy was at his wit’s end. At this pace, he would never make it to a brothel before nightfall. It was at that moment, while he stood between crossroads, that a woman took pity on his poor soul.

“You’re lost.” The elf said from where she leaned against the wall of a collapsing hovel. 

The boy sagged in defeat. “Is it that obvious?”

She nodded and arched an eyebrow at the odd boy. “What is a human like you doing in a place like this?”

“I’m delivering a letter. You wouldn’t happen to know where I could find Karl Thekla, would you?”

Her ears perked up and she pushed off the wall to walk toward the boy. “Karl? The healer’s assistant?”

Immediately the boy’s posture straightened and he looked at the elf with a gleam of hope. “You know him?”

She gave the boy a wolfish grin. “Of course.” The boy couldn’t be older than 17, but humans were always difficult to read. He was young, she could tell, but the younger they were, the more gullible. 

“Can you take me to him?”

“I’m afraid the clinic is closed momentarily,” she lied. “They are restocking their supplies.”

The boy cursed. “Do you know when he will return?”

The elf shrugged. “Around dusk, I suppose.”

The boy’s heart dropped. He had wondrous plans for tonight, all of which would be ruined because of a stupid piece of parchment.

“I could deliver it, if you like,” the elf offered, holding out her hand.

“Really? You would do that?”

“I owe Karl a favor, it would be no trouble for me.”

The boy gave her the envelope with a large grin as he took the bait. “I really appreciate it. Thank you!”

“No need to thank me,” she said, her voice and smile as sweet as honey. 

As the boy dashed away, he gave the elf one last glance over his shoulder, shot her a friendly wave, and ducked around the corner. Once he was out of sight, Varania flipped the envelope over and inspected the wax seal. It was a navy blue with an image of what seemed to be a griffin pressed into the wax. She removed a knife from a satchel around her waist, and held the blade in her palm. Flames began to lick across the steel and once it was too hot to hold, she carefully scraped against the bottom of the seal, melting the wax and lifting it from the parchment in one piece. She stored her knife back in her satchel and removed the letter from the envelope. The tutors Danarius had hired definitely paid off. Varania may have been free for years, but freedom without agency was a useless thing. She treasured the power literacy gave her and she craved more. Varania began to read, slow but steady.

_ Karl, _

_ I’m alive. I suppose this is obvious as this letter is clearly from me _ _ \---  _ _ but it needed to be said. I am alive and I am safe. Your kidnappers, and now my kidnappers (although I truly don’t consider them in that light anymore) have enlisted me in their cause for justice. The elf, who captured you, you know, the grouchy one? Fenris is his name. _

Varania’s breath caught in her throat as she re-read the sentence.

_ Fenris is his name. _

Fenris. Danarius’ little wolf. The reason she was brought to Minrathous in the first place. Her ticket to power. Her ticket to freedom. 

Leto. Her brother. Sweet Leto who plucked flowers from their master’s garden as a gift for their mother. Selfless Leto who took the beating for the broken vase in her stead. Strong Leto who would give her piggy-back rides in the courtyard.

Her eyes snapped back to the letter and she continued reading. 

_ He was Danarius’ slave. He found allies here in Kirkwall, and with our help, he intends to kill him once and for all. Justice and I are in agreement, the magister needs to die. Not only for the crimes he has committed against Fenris, but also for the countless number of his slaves I have treated in our clinic. It may be a long time before I am able to return home, but I have decided to see this through. There are good people here and they need my help. Please don’t come rushing after me. I’ll worry less, knowing that you are safe and the clinic is well looked after.  _

_ All my love, _

_ Anders _

_ P.S. Please remember to keep setting milk and scraps out for the stray cat. I will kill you if I come home and find out that Lord Catticus died. _

Varania leaned back against the wall and slunk to the ground, her knees curled up against her chest. She could just burn the letter. She could burn it and forget she had ever come across it. But she couldn’t. There were always eyes watching in Minrathous. She had no choice. She had to inform Danarius.

She had expected this part to be difficult. She knew what she had signed up for when the magister made his offer. Although she loved the boy from her childhood, the man that Leto, no \---  Fenris, had become was a stranger to her. Leto had sacrificed his freedom for Varania and their mother, Fenris would just have to make the same sacrifice. She carefully slipped the letter back into the envelope and began her trek to Danarius’ mansion. 

  
  


***

Danarius was flipping through a pile of documents with an air of indifference when Varania walked into his office. Her posture was rigid and she marched to the magister’s desk with the bravado of a child playing royalty. She was a mage with natural talent, Danarius had to admit, but she would always be a slave, no matter how powerful she became or how proudly she carried herself. Despite this, he had always admired ambition, even from those who wanted to step outside their status. He would keep his side of the bargain, as long as the elf kept hers.

Varania proudly offered Danarius the envelope. “I intercepted a letter to Karl from Anders.”

The magister paused, the tips of his fingers still lingering on the corner of the stack of parchment. “He hasn’t returned but he’s writing letters? He still surprises me, even hundreds of miles away.” Danarius took the envelope, removed the sheet of paper inside, and began to read. 

By the time he set the letter down on his desk he had a smug grin on his face. “Well, well, well. Anders certainly keeps things exciting, doesn’t he? You did well Varania.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“It looks like my little lark is singing a different tune, and my wolf has found a new master.” He snapped his fingers, causing the small elvhen woman at the door to straighten her posture. He pretended not to notice that Varania instinctively did the same. “Octavia, go fetch Hadriana and be quick about it.” The elf gave him a curt nod and hurried through the open door. 

Varania cleared her throat. “If I may ask, what is your plan now?”

“To bring my pets home of course. I think it is time that this little rebellion of theirs comes to an end, and you, my dear, shall play a pivotal role in my plan.”

Moments later, Hadriana strode into Danarius’ study with her robes billowing behind her. She wrinkled her nose at the sight of Varania. “What is the knife ear bitch doing here?” 

“Now now, dear,” Danarius chided. “Play nice.” Varania stared straight ahead, ignoring her presence.

His apprentice scoffed but otherwise bit back any further remarks. “You sent for me?”

“Are you still in contact with the Antivan Crow?”

“Yes,” Hadriana responded, raising an eyebrow.

“Is she still in town?”

“She shacked up in a brothel and hasn’t left since.”

“The Red Lantern, I assume?” Hadrianna nodded and Danarius gave her a sly smirk. “She has expensive taste. It must be a strain on the pockets for someone of her status. I’m sure she will be quite eager to hear that I have a job waiting for her.”

Hadriana’s eyes narrowed and briefly flickered to where Varania stood in the room. The elf gave her a cold glare. “What job?”

“I need help forging a letter,” Danarius explained. “That is her specialty, correct?”

Hadriana gave him a curious look before nodding again. “Don’t keep me in the dark for long, Danarius.”

“All will be revealed shortly,” he said. “Now, run along.”

Thoroughly dismissed, Hadriana turned on her heel with a swish of her robes and steeled herself to visit an old friend.

  
  


***

  
  


The irony of his situation was not lost on Karl. He had foolishly run off and left Anders alone and worried at the clinic, and now it was his turn to stew in his own misery. Part of him wished he had never left Tevinter and tried to play the hero. He was glad he had saved Adelaide, he didn’t regret freeing her from the Circle, but at the root of his soul Karl knew that he wasn’t made for rescuing. Anders had always been the brave one, the one who took risks. Karl was the rational one, the voice of reason. He didn’t know why he thought he could change that. Karl was many things: a scholar, an activist, a friend, but he was no one’s hero. He couldn’t even save Anders. At the first sign of danger he went numb, unfeeling, unseeing, just like when he was still in the Circle, complacent to all of the suffering around him, including his own. 

With nothing other to do than wait, Karl threw himself into work. Much of his time was spent showing Adelaide the ropes and helping her adjust to life in Minrathous. Being a free elf in Tevinter presented its own challenges, but Adelaide reveled in the newfound freedom she held with her magic. Although she was not a spirit healer like Anders, she had quite a knack for healing spells and potion making. Not to mention, the slaves and liberati were more trusting of one of their own. The two of them worked together to keep the routine as usual. They would open the clinic, pass out food, and heal all who came through their doors to the best of their ability. Every time a patient asked for the healer, Karl ignored the pit in his stomach and smiled as he lied through his teeth.

At sunset, a little over a week after Karl returned to Tevinter, and nearly a month since Anders had been left behind in Kirkwall, an elvhen boy with wild curly hair and a gap in his teeth appeared at the clinic. When he entered, his pace slowed and he looked uncertainly between all of the bustling adults that towered over him. He cleared his throat and spoke in Tevene, his small voice and stature barely rose above the chaos of the clinic.

“Habeo litteras ad Domine Thekla!”

“Ego sum Thekla,” Karl responded, standing from where he had taken residence at Anders’ desk. 

The boy scurried over to him and bowed deeply, lifting a crumpled piece of parchment that was folded into a tiny square. Karl plucked the paper from the boy’s small fingers, a puzzled expression on his face. As he flipped the parchment over, his heart, which was barely held afloat by a thin wire, plummeted into the depths of the earth. Printed on the paper was the name Karl Thekla in Anders’ sloppy handwriting. Tremors rattled through his hands as he fumbled to unfold the piece of parchment. The message was short and succinct. There were blots of ink in the corner, and sections of the text had been smeared.

_ Karl, _

_ I have overheard my kidnappers. I am no longer of any use to them. They plan to turn me into the Templars at first light. I am attempting an escape tonight. If you receive this letter, then you know I was unsuccessful. Go to Danarius, seek his help. Maker willing I will be home soon. _

_ All my love, _

_ Anders _

It felt like all the breath was torn from Karl’s lungs, leaving a hollow void in his chest. This was Anders’ handwriting, there was no doubt about that. Karl had studied his chicken scratch for years in the Circle and could recognize the stroke of his quill as easily as if it were Anders’ voice. But the letter wasn’t like him at all. It was brief and rigid, containing none of Anders’ snark, none of his life. He sounded...empty. An image rose in his mind unbidden of amber eyes fogged over as a red sunburst was burnt into a pale freckled forehead. Bile rose in his throat. No \---  Anders was smart. He could have found a way to hide Justice and avoid the brand. But if he couldn’t? If he couldn’t, not even the Maker, the elvhen Creators, nor the dwarven Ancestors could protect the men who did this to him.

  
  


Karl crumpled the letter in his fist, his mind flitting through an endless number of possibilities. It could be a trap set by the Templars, to secure another runaway mage. But how did Danarius play into this? He supposed capturing a magister who was a known maleficar would be a rare prize for the order. But, Tevinter magisters had diplomatic immunity; to cage one in the Circle or to bestow the brand would be an act of war. It was much more likely that Anders wrote his letter in a desperate hurry. He could still be alive. He could still be Anders and not a husk of what the man used to be. Karl would have to move quickly. It would have taken at least a week for this letter to reach him, and it would take even longer for Karl to reach Kirkwall. By then Anders could have the brand- if he didn’t already. 

“Adelaide.” he called. His voice cracked but he held his composure. Now was not the time to fall apart. 

Adelaide looked up from where she was grinding a poultice. Her ears twitched nervously at the look on Karl’s face.

“Yes?”

“Finish healing any patients we already have then close the clinic. Only open it for emergencies.”

She frowned but nodded. “Karl, are you okay?”

He looked at her then, mind blank, face blank as if no one were in there at all. “No.”

  
  
  


***

  
  


When Karl arrived at Danarius’ mansion, as the magister had expected he would, he was lounging in the garden watching the sunset with a glass of Aggregio Pavali in his hand, while a slave massaged his feet. Danarius raised his glass in greeting and gave the other mage a charming smile, ignoring the haunted look in the other man’s eyes.

“Karl! I see that you have returned safely from Kirkwall. Is Anders not with you?” He asked, feigning ignorance as he tried to look behind him, hoping to spot a man he knew would not be there. 

“Anders is in danger,” Karl said curtly.

“Danger?” Danarius arched an eyebrow in disbelief.

Karl held out a crumpled piece of parchment for Danarius to read. Of course, he already knew what the letter said. He was the one who had dictated it in the first place. However, he made a show of reading the letter, his frown deepening after each word.

“I see…” 

“I need your help to free him. If you hold any affection for him like you claim to, please help me,” Karl begged through gritted teeth. 

“Of course. You needn’t have asked. I would do anything for Anders. I have some affairs that I need to get in order before I can leave Minrathous, but I can send you south with my apprentice, Hadriana, and I will follow shortly.” The magister stroked his beard. “It may take a while to pull some strings and have his custody transferred over to me, but if I imply that he is a citizen of Tevinter and one of my apprentices, then the law is in our favor.”

Karl’s lip curled at the mention of Anders becoming Danarius’ apprentice. The muscle in his jaw popped as he ground his teeth tighter. If Anders could make a deal with that snake to get him home, then he could do the same. “Do you truly think this plan will work?”

“I promise he will be home in no time, and there will be no need for bloodshed.” 

There was a glint of fury in Karl’s eyes. “But the men who turned him in must face justice.”

Danarius gave him a feral grin. “I’m sure we can arrange that.” He snapped his fingers and the slave at his feet stood. “Octavia, send for Hadriana, tell her to meet us in my study.” The magister got to his feet and downed the rest of his wine. “We have a long night ahead of us if we want you on a ship by the morrow.” 

  
  


***

  
  


‘S’ was Fenris’ favorite letter. It had become his favorite for two reasons, the first and most important being the fact that it looked like a little snake reared to strike. The second was that both the small ‘s’ and the big ‘S’, which Anders called the ‘capital’ for some reason, were the exact same shape. Fenris didn’t understand why the alphabet insisted on using different shapes between smaller letters and their larger counterparts. In his opinion, they should just stick to one shape and emphasize these ‘capitals’ by simply making the print larger. When he told Anders this, the mage had chuckled and gave him a list of ‘S’ words to read and write. 

To Anders’ delight, Fenris had caught on quite quickly to how sounds translated to certain combinations of letters. His penmanship, however, was atrocious, even compared to the mage’s sloppy scribbles. Therefore, Fenris found himself spending his evening, yet again, in the mage’s company. He had long since been cleared for battle by Anders, and yet he had turned down all the jobs Hawke had brought him. Instead, he spent his days and nights sprawled somewhere in the mansion, stumbling through each story in the mage’s book with Anders hovering over his shoulder, whispering corrections into his ear.

That night, Anders had assigned him a penmanship exercise, writing out the names of his friends. This simple lesson quickly became a drawn out affair as Fenris regaled the mage with stories of his companions. 

“And Merrill did not realize that Isabela not only wanted to be tied up but was thoroughly enjoying the experience.” Fenris continued. “So her first instinct was to pick up the lounge chair and smash it across his back.”

Anders gasped. “She did not.”

“She did.” 

“Oh Maker.” Anders buried his face in his palms and peeked at the elf from between his fingers. 

“Apparently she was so worked up in the moment that she forgot she had magic.” Fenris snorted. “According to Isabela, it was so hilarious seeing a tiny five-foot elf completely decimate a full grown man with a chair twice her size that she completely forgave Merrill for ruining her night.” 

“Your friends are insane.” The mage said in disbelief.

“You have to be a little mad to be able to work with someone like Hawke.” Fenris admitted. He took the nub of charcoal and drew a straight line down, marking an ‘L’ at the end of Merrill’s name.

“Alright, who’s next?” Anders asked.

“The only one left is Sebastian.” 

“How do you think that is spelled?”

“S,” Fenris began as he smirked at the mage.

Anders snorted. “Yes, good. What’s next?”

He paused. The vowels were always the most difficult for him. “‘U’?”

“Not quite,” Anders corrected. “Although ‘U’ can make an ‘UH’ sound we are actually looking at an ‘E’ this time.”

Fenris frowned. “The trade tongue is ridiculous. If it is a ‘U’ sound it should be made with a ‘U’.”

Anders shrugged. “It is the way it is. I certainly can’t change it.” 

“You should at least try,” he grumbled before turning back to his parchment. Fenris began drawing the ‘S’, in its bigger form of course, as Anders insisted that all names had to begin with a ‘capital’ letter. Then he wrote a little ‘E’, slowly, as to not make the tail crooked. 

“Good, good!” Anders praised, grinning at him as he leaned over his shoulder. The mage smelled like elf-root and the orange he had eaten earlier, Fenris noted. “What comes after ‘E’?”

“‘B’,” he said confidently. “Then ‘A’ followed by ‘S’, ‘C’, ‘H’, ‘I’, ‘N’. Sebastian.” He turned to give the mage a smug grin only to have it fall after noticing how close their faces were.

Anders gave him an apologetic smile. “It does sound like it would be spelled like chin, but it is actually ‘T’, ‘I’, ‘A’, ‘N’.” 

Fenris scowled. “That makes absolutely no sense, how can a ‘T’ make a ‘CH’ noise?” 

“The ‘S’ before the ‘T’ creates a similar sound to “CH” and all together it sort of blurs into ‘CH’,” Anders explained. 

Fenris glared as the ‘S’ he had drawn on his paper. Maybe that letter shouldn’t be his favorite. 

“Oh don’t pout, Broody. I promise you’re not going to find this combination often. Try writing the rest down.”

The elf mumbled the letters under his breath as he began the long process of writing the rest of Sebastian’s name. He had managed to get to the letter ‘T’ before the smell of elf root and oranges became distracting. He could see the mage out of the corner of his eye, his chin almost resting on Fenris’ shoulder. 

“Did I tell you the story about the Starkhaven drum?” the elf blurted.

“I can’t say you have.”

Fenris spun around in his chair, nearly bumping into Anders’ face. He was close. Too close. The elf swallowed and averted his gaze. “So Hawke, Sebastian, Isabela, and I were on a job in the Wounded Coast. We were attacked by bandits, of course-“

“Of course,” Anders repeated, the corner of his mouth already twitching upwards. 

“After the battle, Hawke was rummaging through their campsite and he found this huge drum. The kind you needed to strap around your waist to be able to play. Sebastian was able to identify its origin immediately, which unfortunately was a huge mistake on his part.” 

“Oh no, what did Hawke do?”

“Nothing at first. I do not know if he simply forgot about it or was biding his time, but one day, seemingly out of nowhere, while Sebastian was completing his duties for the Chantry, Hawke was there with the giant drum. Every step he took, and every time he tried to speak for the next week, Hawke would be there, drowning him out.”

Anders wrinkled his nose at the mention of the Chantry, but he quickly found himself laughing at Hawke’s antics. “That must have gotten old fast.” 

“It was funny at first,” admitted Fenris. “But once he brought it into our Wicked Grace night. We couldn’t even play over how obnoxious it was. The following day, however, the drum had disappeared.”

The mage raised his brows. “Disappeared?”

Fenris leaned forward. “Someone snuck into his home at night and stole it,” he whispered.

“Was it Sebastian?” 

“Everyone certainly thinks so, although he denies it vehemently.” The elf always had remarkable control over what emotions were displayed on his face, but he couldn’t help himself. A small smirk began to spread. “But they are wrong. I stole it.” 

There was a sharp intake of breath and Anders put a hand over his heart as if he were scandalized by Fenris’ reveal. “Of course, no one would suspect you, you’re just so... so…”

“Broody?” the elf offered. 

Anders lifted his hands up in surrender. “You’re the one who said it, not me!” 

Fenris laughed. That sound, so small and rare, made a comforting warmth blossom in the mage’s chest. The elf turned back to his parchment and picked up the charcoal. With a few more strokes he had finished writing Sebastian’s name. Anders put his hand on the back of Fenris’ chair and leaned over the elf’s right shoulder to look at the paper. The elf nervously twirled the stick of charcoal in his hand, covering the pads of his fingers in black dust.

“This is an incredible improvement, Fenris,” Anders murmured. “I’m proud of you.”

The charcoal clattered to the table as it slipped from the elf’s grip.  _ I’m proud of you.  _ He’s heard those words before, many times from the lips of a magister. They were empty praises, all of them. 

_ Good boy. _

_ I’m proud of you. _

_ I love you.  _

He could feel the heat radiating off the mage from behind him and he flinched, turning around to face him so his back was not exposed. Fenris wasn’t sure what he thought he would see in the mage’s eyes. No \---  he knew what he thought he would find, but Anders was practically glowing as he looked at the elf. There was not that empty impassive look in his eye that he had grown accustomed to. No, Anders' eyes glittered like pools of gold, warm and inviting and sincere. 

“Thank you,” he said hesitantly. “I suppose I owe it to having a good teacher.”

Anders shook his head. “No, you underestimate yourself. You really are remarkable.”

Fenris’ ears twitched and he shuffled in the chair. Remarkable? 

The mage yawned and covered his gaping mouth with the back of his hand. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I am dead tired.”

“I apologize for keeping you up.”

“Oh, there’s no need!” Anders said, stretching his arms above his head. His shirt lifted slightly and Fenris could see the waistband of the mage’s smalls peeking out from his trousers. They were green like his coat. “I really enjoy teaching you. Not to mention you are quite the storyteller. I can’t wait to meet all of your companions.”

“If you would like,” Fenris began pausing to wet his lips. His mouth was so dry. Why was his mouth dry? “You could join us at our next game of Wicked Grace.”

Anders’ paused in his stretch. “I would like that very much,” he said.

“Good. We missed the last game night so the next one should be in the following week.”

As Anders walked towards the door he threw a smirk over his shoulder. “I’ll make sure to clear my schedule.” The mage rested his hand on the doorframe as the snarky expression on his face morphed into something softer. “Goodnight Fenris.”

“Goodnight mage,” he said. Then Anders disappeared around the corner of Fenris’ bedroom door and melted into the shadows of the mansion.

As Fenris lay in bed he couldn’t shake the feeling as if he were being watched by sources unknown. But he knew the source. Amber eyes were prying away years of armor he had built around himself and he felt utterly exposed. How could someone who had made his blood boil, who still made his blood boil on many an occasion, make him want to open up? This was all Hawke’s fault, Fenris concluded. That blasted man had to come in with his never ending kindness and joy and trust. He had to not only be an exception to Fenris’ experience with mages, but be utterly and completely exemplary in every single way. Hawke had opened the door to his heart and all of their traveling companions had followed. Even Merril had endeared herself to him in her own way. So why did it shock him that he considered the mage good company? Even a friend perhaps?

Anders was a mage, a possessed one in fact. He was a man who stood against everything he believed in. Fenris should hold him at a distance. But he was also a healer, a kind and gentle man. He made Fenris smile. He made him laugh. Anders was complicated, and Fenris didn’t like complicated. It was so much easier and less confusing when the world he knew was still the world he knew. But his world was changing, and to stay afloat he would have to change with it.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> I know a lot of you have been concerned about Karl, and although this may not aleviate any of your worries- at least you know he is alive!
> 
> Of course a huge thanks to every single one of you who left kudos or a comment on my fic. I treasure every single one. If you enjoyed this chapter and are interested in reading more, please feel free to subscribe, leave kudos, or leave a comment saying hi.  
> Stay lovely <3
> 
> TEVENE 101 - aka an egregious use of Latin and google translate
> 
> Habeo litteras ad Domine Thekla - I have a letter for Master Thekla
> 
> Ego sum Thekla - I am Thekla


	7. The Long, Long, Nights Begin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris takes Anders to The Hanged Man. Anders tries to keep his eyes to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, I’m back! It’s been a while since I updated. A whole rollercoaster of life events has uprooted me the past few months, but I promised I would continue writing this, so here we are! I hope you enjoy this extra-long chapter at the start of the new year! Also a huge, HUGE thanks to r1ns0 for beta reading this chapter and getting it out into the world! (Without you it would have continued to sit and collect dust for another six months!)
> 
> Just a warning, this chapter contains semi-graphic mentions of rape. If you would like to avoid this content, please stop reading at “But even then there is still no light.” and continue reading after “Fenris stared at Anders, his mouth slightly agape…” It is mentioned again starting at “In the dream, you said-“ and ending at “All that mattered was that I wasn’t alone.”
> 
> Now enough of me talking and let's get down to the nitty-gritty of what we’ve all been waiting for, that sweet sweet pining.

It took five days before Fenris was able to fulfill his promise. It was not long after the sun had dipped beneath the horizon that he announced the two of them should make their way to The Hanged Man. They began their trek into Lowtown side by side, but as they continued through the narrow alleys and dark streets, Anders let the elf take the lead; the mage was far more content to take up the rear. The obvious reasoning behind his strategic position was that he simply had no idea how to navigate to the tavern and would surely get the both of them lost. His real reasoning, though Anders was loath to admit it, was that Fenris made a striking figure from behind. Specifically, his actual behind if the mage was being accurate. 

It wasn’t as if Anders was trying to look at the elf. In fact, he had been making it a point over the last week to look anywhere but at Fenris. Their budding friendship was a fragile, delicate thing. It was precious to the mage--he would not break it with wanton stares. However, he couldn’t deny his attraction. Fenris was handsome. Anders would have been a fool not to take notice, though often a fool he was. As they walked, the mage drank in Fenris’ silhouette. The elf’s broad shoulders and narrow hips transformed his body into a dynamic map of hard angles. Anders couldn’t help but let his eyes travel over Fenris in appreciation.

He was wearing his armor, like always, and the moonlight glinted off the metal plate and his silver hair. The tight black leather fit Fenris like a glove, one that the elf refused to take off both to Anders’ delight and dismay. The mage had only seen him wear common clothes during the days following his injury. As soon as Anders had deemed Fenris healthy enough, the elf had donned his armor, only removing it for bathing and sleeping. Even unarmed and exposed, Fenris’ sword always remained by his side, either leaned against the tub or against the wall near his bed. 

The first time Anders was greeted with this revelation was several nights ago when he accidentally caught Fenris walking from the bath back to his bedroom--the elf was nude, except for a towel wrapped around his waist, and his absolutely massive longsword was hoisted over his shoulder. The mage was thankful that Fenris hadn’t caught him gawking at the sight through the open door of his bedroom as the elf walked past. Catching a glimpse of the elf with his skin on display was inevitable living in such close quarters, but a pleasant surprise nonetheless. The sword, however, was completely unexpected and thrilled Anders in ways that he was not prepared to confront. 

To strangers, Fenris no doubt looked intimidating as he led the mage through Lowtown. He played the role of a wild beast well, an act that Anders had fallen for on their first meeting. Anders knew now that beneath all of his spiky armor hid an intelligent man with a dry wit that never failed to make him laugh. How did he once believe that the elf was nothing more than a wild dog? Sure, he had a temper that burnt hot and quick, but so did Anders, with insults forged in the flames of his own rage. If he could take back his harsh words, he would. He wondered if Fenris felt the same. How unexpected, that a month living with the elf had not ended in utter chaos. How remarkable, that the mage had turned from enemy to friend.

**I do not understand why you find it so difficult to believe. He fights for justice, as we do.**

Anders instinctively opened his mouth in reply, but snapped his jaw shut before a single syllable could escape. Speaking to Justice out loud had always been a bad habit of his--one that was second nature to him--but he quickly realized, through several unfortunate events at the start of their joining, how utterly mad he sounded to those who had the unfortunate privilege of overhearing such discussions. Adding Fenris to that equation would be even more of a disaster. He was sure the elf would not appreciate him openly speaking to his “demon”, especially when the topic was about Fenris himself.

Anders gathered his stray thoughts together, but they quickly scattered when he felt cold metal brush at the nape of his neck. Something sharp caught on the collar of Anders’ coat and he was yanked backward. The mage let out a strangled sound of protest and instinctively reached behind his head to scrabble against the metal gauntlets. Anders’ first thought was of the Templars and their cold hands--of steel tangling in his hair, closing around his throat, clawing at his back, and digging into his hips. Then he sensed the lyrium and his anxiety dissipated like a candle sputtering out in the rain. He looked over his shoulder--it was just Fenris. The elf had lightly grabbed the scruff of Anders’ coat and was giving him an exasperated look.

“I called for you three times, Mage,” Fenris said.

“You did no such thing.”

The elf raised a brow. “I did, and you kept walking past me with your head in the clouds.”

“I did not!” Anders grumbled, petulantly crossing his arms over his chest.

Fenris rolled his eyes, but Anders could see that the corner of his mouth was threatening to curl into a smirk. “We are here.”

Further behind Fenris, Anders could see a large building made of sandstone that blended into the structures around it and nestled between the large walls that separated Lowtown from Kirkwall’s more wealthy inhabitants. Warm light flickered from the windows and muffled music could be heard from the streets. There was no sign scrawled in a sloppy script identifying The Hanged man, but above the door, swaying slightly in the breeze, hung a wooden carving of a man hanging upside-down from his ankle.

A queasy feeling rose up in Anders’ throat and he sent a silent prayer to the Maker that he wouldn’t vomit. Behind that door Anders would find people, lots of them. People who might stare, who might recognize the magical components of his staff, who might share that information. He hadn’t been to a bar since his days as a Warden, when he was the closest he would ever be to being a free mage in southern Thedas. He no longer had that protection. It was in his nature as an apostate to lie low and avoid detection. Tonight, however, he was foregoing his instincts and walking into the lion's den. The patrons themselves made him uneasy, although he logically knew that they would either be too ignorant to recognize a mage or too drunk to care. 

Anders found comfort in the fact that drunks were predictable and oblivious. He could handle that. It was Fenris’ friends that sent alarm bells ringing in his mind. From the elf’s stories, Anders knew that he counted a chantry brother and a guard captain among his companions. He tried to remind himself that two apostates were members of Hawke’s merry group, not to mention one of which was considered the leader and the other a maleficar. Neither Garret nor Merril had been turned into the circle. Yet. He hoped that his presence wouldn’t tip the scales, but Anders knew from experience that he couldn’t rely on hope.

He gave Fenris a strained smile. “After you!”

If the elf noticed Anders’ forced cheer, he thankfully kept it to himself. When Fenris opened the door to The Hanged Man, he was smacked with an overwhelming wave of heat and the smell that accompanied the best of taverns: ale, sweat, hot food, and a little bit of piss. The music that leaked out onto the street increased ten-fold as dozens of voices came together to sing a sea shanty over the melody of a fiddle and an accordion. It was too loud and too bright. The pub shifted around him and Anders had a hard time grounding himself. He closed his eyes and tried to focus beyond the shouting voices to listen to the lilting jig of the accordion. He was surprised that he took comfort in the noise. Anders hadn’t heard one since when his father played. It wasn’t a common instrument outside of the Anderfels. There was a part of him that wanted to follow the sound--a part that he long thought had been buried with his old name. 

Anders opened his eyes and scanned the room to find the musician. He half expected to see Vati give him a soft smile while his fingers flitted over the keys. He would sing songs of his homeland and then serenade Mutter with a wink. She would scoff and continue her knitting, but her red cheeks would always betray her. It wasn’t his father, of course. Just a girl with pale blonde hair in a loose braid. There was a crushing force pressing on his chest, and he blinked away any tears that dared to spill from his face. He would not cry tonight. He would not throw up. He would not look at the musicians and feel regret. He would not do anything that would ruin this night for Fenris. 

He tore his eyes away from the girl and instead focused on the dark-skinned woman who was leading The Hanged Man in song. She was standing on a table in the center of the room with her back to Anders and was shouting rather than singing the lyrics to the people gathered around her, but they didn’t seem to mind and neither did he. He was much more preoccupied with the fact that she was scantily clad and wearing thigh high boots than her singing ability. He was sure he wasn’t the only patron in the tavern to have taken notice. Although he only had a view of her backside, Anders couldn’t complain--it was a glorious view. He may have left his promiscuity behind after joining Justice, but his body still yearned for simple pleasures.

**You look at both this woman and the elf with a hunger. Are you aware that you are staring at the location from which excrement is released?**

Just as quickly as it had appeared, his desire waned. Justice had an uncanny knack for being the most inconvenient cock-block that the mage had ever hosted. Anders groaned and closed his eyes again, speaking before he was able to catch himself. “Yes. I’m aware of the functions of the mortal body.” Luckily, his voice was swept away beneath the roar of applause as the song reached its end. 

A hand landed on his shoulder and warm breath ghosted against his ear. “That would be Isabela.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Fenris’ gauntleted finger pointing at the woman standing on the table. “She will be joining us shortly. She never misses Wicked Grace night. Not for booze, money, or sex.”

Anders drew in a sharp breath and choked on his words. “She sure makes an impression.” It was simply illegal for the elf to have such a sinfully deep voice. 

Fenris chuckled in his ear and a shiver rolled from the nape of Anders’ neck down to his cock, making him weak in the knees. The dizziness returned as the blood that should have been in his brain quickly flowed south. Not even Justice and his “understanding” of the mortal body could prevent the effects the elf’s voice had on him.

Fenris dragged his fingers down Anders’ arm, sending sparks through his skin. When he reached Anders’ hand, he took it within his own and began dragging the mage through the thick throng of people. Music began to sweep through the crowd and he was jostled by the excited patrons, but he didn’t slip out of Fenris’ grip. Anders wasn’t sure if the tingling sensation he felt in his hand was due to the elf’s lyrium or to something else entirely. All he knew was that his eyes were locked on Fenris’ white lined fingers that interlaced with his own. Was his heart pounding in his chest? Or was it just the sound of drunkards banging on the table to Isabela’s new song?

Anders let himself be led upstairs, away from the chaos below. The music faded into the background, but the drum thundering in his chest remained. They came to a stop at one of the rooms and Fenris released his hand to push the door open. The chamber was much larger than Anders expected. He had spent many a night in taverns after his escapes from the Circle, but no room had ever been quite so spacious or grand. Vivid red tapestries hung across the ceiling and cascaded down the stone walls. The wooden floor, though scarred from decades of use, was clean and polished. An expensive rug lay at the entryway, made with what Anders could only assume was the finest red wool and gold thread. He wasn't quite sure what he had expected the dwarf’s home to look like, but he thought it suited Varric.

“Friends!” Hawke boomed as he took three large strides to the door. 

In one fell swoop, he pulled both Fenris and Anders close to his chest in a crushing hug. The elf patted Hawke’s back with a resigned sigh, knowing that the man never understood the true might of his strength. When Hawke released them with a wide grin, Anders couldn’t help but forgive him for nearly cracking his ribs.

“It has been too long,” Hawke said.

“You came to visit two days ago,” Fenris pointed out.

Hawke dramatically placed his hand across his eyes and slumped into Fenris, forcing the elf to carry his weight. “I was bereft without your company.”

Anders snorted at the sight of Hawke, who was a rather large man, daintily draping his body over Fenris. “You’re ridiculous.”

Hawke righted himself and firmly grasped Anders’ shoulders. “Buuut... Did you miss me?!”

“Yes,” the mage admitted.

He slung one arm around Fenris and the other around Anders before guiding them further into the room. “Of course you did. No one can resist my charms.”

“That is a bold claim to make, Hawke.” At the head of a large stone slab table was Varric, reclined in a chair cut from the same rock. A matching chair was placed on the other end and two wooden benches had been dragged to the sides. There were three people already seated, besides the dwarf himself.

Hawke gave the mage a heavy thump on his upper back, forcing him forward. “Everyone, this is Anders. He’s the healer I was telling you all about.”

Three sets of eyes zoned in on him like a pack of wolves who had finally caught sight of their prey. Anders froze and gave the group a half-hearted wave. Everyone was staring at him expectantly with curiosity or maybe even wariness. What was he supposed to say? What was he supposed to do? He should have practiced or something. Forgiveness be damned--he was going to kill Hawke for putting him in the spotlight like this.

But Varric--sweet, kind, gentle, amazing Varric--piped up from his seat, taking charge of the introductions. “Welcome to my humble abode, Blondie. And welcome to Hawke’s merry crew. Over here we have Daisy…”

He pointed to a small elvhen woman with cropped black hair and large doe eyes. They were similar to Fenris’ in color, but not as vibrant; rather a darker, subdued shade. She gave him a little wave with the tips of her fingers.

Varric turned to his left and gestured to a man with ruddy brown hair slicked back out of his face. “Choir Boy…”

The man sank deeper into his seat and frowned. Anders was surprised to see that he was wearing a simple tunic and breeches. He had expected him to be fully decked out in the garb of a chantry brother.

“And Red.” The dwarf finished, pointing to a woman on his right-hand side. She was a tall broad shouldered woman with flaming orange hair and freckles speckled across her face. 

She huffed at the nickname. “You could at least tell the poor man our real names, Varric.” She gave Anders a respectful, but curt nod. “I’m Aveline Vallen.”

“Oh, we’re not doing the funny names then?” the little elf asked. “I rather like them.”

Varric gave her a fond smile. “And that’s why you’re Daisy.”

Fenris swooped in behind Anders, having successfully freed himself from Hawke’s iron clad grasp. He placed his hand on the curve of the mage’s back and for a moment Anders forgot why he was nervous in the first place. “As an author, you would think he could come up with more creative names,” he murmured in Anders’ ear.

“Hey! I resent that!” Varric said, wagging his finger at Fenris. The elf rolled his eyes and led Anders to the table. To the mage’s relief he was not forced to sit next to the Chantry brother as Fenris took that seat, allowing Anders to take the place on his left-hand side. Hawke plopped down in the stone chair at the end of the table, leaving only one empty spot on the bench across from Anders. 

“To think I got the two of you a present…” the dwarf tutted.

Fenris arched a brow and looked at Varric expectantly. “Well?”

Varric reached under his chair and brought out a bottle of wine. He slid it across the table and Fenris easily caught it. Anders didn’t know much about wine, but the label was Orlesian, and he knew Orlais was serious about their wine.

“What’s the occasion?” Anders asked.

“Let’s just say that I would have been a very unhappy dwarf if I’d had to bury Broody over here. Thanks to you, I don’t have to do that.” 

“Now that is something I can toast to!” Hawke eagerly rubbed his hands together. “Bring out the glasses!”

“You just want an excuse to drink expensive wine,” Fenris teased as he pulled the bottle between himself and Anders to protect its very precious contents.

“How dare you call me out on my exact intentions!”

The elf shook his head fondly. “There is plenty to go around.”

“I’ll get the glasses then.” Varric stood from the table and walked to a nearby cupboard where he began shuffling through the drawers. 

The man who Varric had aptly named Choir Boy cleared his throat and leaned past Fenris, making eye contact with the mage. “My name is Sebastian, by the way.”

Anders was prepared for many things to come out of the chantry brother’s mouth, most of which would have been categorized as propaganda and anti-mage rhetoric. He was altogether unprepared for the man’s soft spoken voice, heavy with a thick Starkhaven accent. Sebastian extended his hand across the table. Anders hesitantly took it and gave him a firm handshake before retreating back behind Fenris.

“I’m Merrill!” The little elf leaned across the table as far as she could reach, which wasn’t very far at all, to offer her hand for him to shake. “It’s nice to meet you, Anders.”

“You know you don’t have to shake everyone’s hand when you meet them, right?” Hawke said with a snort as Merrill tried stretching herself even further across the table.

“But Sebastian just did it,” she pouted. “You humans are so weird about your rituals.”

Anders leaned forward, his lanky body and long arms easily covering the distance, and gently took her hand in his own. “It’s nice to meet you too.”

Merrill gave Hawke a triumphant grin as she settled back into her seat. Varric appeared to her left and set a wine glass in front of her. The dwarf continued his path around the table, leaving a glass by each seat, even for the empty spot across from Anders that would eventually be filled by Isabela when she decided to join them. 

Fenris uncorked the bottle and poured himself a liberal amount of wine before passing it to Anders. The wine made its way around the table until Sebastian, who politely declined. By then, the elf had nearly finished his glass and he topped off the rest of his wine with whatever drops remained in the bottle. 

Hawke stood, raising his glass to the ceiling. “A toast! To Fenris and his full recovery. May he kill slavers for the rest of his days. To Anders, I can not thank you enough for saving the life of one of my dearest friends. I hope we get to keep you around for a long time.”

“I second that!” Varric added, his voice oddly gruff.

Anders smiled softly and cast a glance at the man beside him. Fenris was the most relaxed and serene that he had ever seen him be. The somber elf was always tense at the manor, constantly anticipating Danarius to step around the corner at any moment. But here with his friends--no, his family--Anders thought that Fenris could forget, even if just for a moment. 

He raised his own glass, unable to look away from the elf, who’s eyes glittered like emeralds in the firelight. “Thank you, all of you. To friendship! To freedom!” 

Anders heard the tinkling sound of glasses clinking together and what could have been laughs or cheers. He couldn’t tell. All of it just faded into the background when he looked at Fenris and the way the corner of his mouth quirked up in a smile. The elf lifted his glass slightly and inclined his head before taking a sip of the wine, leaving his lips slick and red. The mage’s mouth felt suddenly dry, so he quickly gulped down his drink.

“So Anders,” Aveline began, snapping him out of his wandering thoughts. “I’m told you’re a Grey Warden. Did you serve at Weisshaupt?”

“Oh no, I’ve never actually been to the Anderfels. My father was born there but he immigrated before I was born. I’m Fereldan through and through.”

“Ah, I see. I’m sorry for assuming.”

“It’s fine. My hair and name make it almost impossible not to assume.” He assured Aveline with a kind smile, the one he usually reserved for his patients. Anders hoped she knew he wasn’t offended. “You’re Ferelden too, right? Like Hawke?”

The man in question thrust out his chest, preening like the peacock he was. “We are Dog Lords and proud of it!” Hawke shouted, as if he had something to prove to the patrons downstairs.

“How you ever survived the life of an apostate with that voice of yours is beyond me,” Aveline sighed.

Anders nearly flinched when the word left her mouth. It was due to many years of practice that only his fingers twitched. When someone said apostate it was almost always accompanied by a mouthful of spit and vitriol. When Aveline said it, the word was fond, if not slightly annoyed. Was this something they were allowed to talk about in the open with Fenris’ friends? He knew that magic was at least tolerated by the group, as no one had been sent kicking and screaming to the Gallows, but he never thought he would see open teasing of one of the Chantry’s greatest sins this far in the south. 

He looked at his fellow mage, searching for the familiar signs of a tense jaw, stiff posture, or darting eyes. But it was all for naught. Hawke had no fear. Maker, the man even chuckled at the guard captain’s jab. How was it that Hawke always seemed proud to be a mage? He was proud to a dangerous degree even, as the man lacked a healthy amount of subtlety. Anders wished he had confidence like that. He was steadfast in his convictions of course, and had his own prideful nature regarding his magic, but it had taken him many years of self-loathing to get where he was today. For Hawke, loving himself seemed to be effortless, the consequences of the world be damned. 

Anders tilted his head, appraising him. “Have you always been an apostate? I feel like I would have remembered you if we met in Kinloch Hold.”

“Trust me, I wouldn’t make it easy for you to forget,” he said with a wink. “But yes, I have. My father was a mage and so was my sister. We lived a quiet simple life before the blight came.”

“Is your family with you in Kirkwall?” He tried to remember if he ran into anyone other than the dwarf boy in Hawke’s mansion.

“Not all of them. My father and sister have met the maker. It is just my mother and Carver now.”

Anders couldn’t help but notice his bitter tone. “Carver?”

“My brother.” Hawke explained. “A pain in my ass and a bloody Templar too.”

Anders recoiled, his mouth opened but nothing came out. What could he say anyway?  _ I’m sorry that your brother chose to work for the people who spend their whole lives oppressing your family? _ What would that change? Nothing. 

Hawke shrugged and took a deep swig of his ale. Silence settled around the group like a heavy fog. Anders dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands. He used to be good at this, making friends, being the light of the party, and now… now he just brought up dead family members and shared trauma. This was a stupid idea. He should just leave. He shifted his weight in an attempt to stand up, but he felt pressure on top of his knee and stalled. 

“Varric, why don’t you deal us some cards?” Fenris asked, giving Anders’ hand a gentle squeeze, opening his palm and running his thumb over the deep crescent marks the mage had dug into his hand. Anders’ eyes flickered at the group across from him, but no one seemed to notice what Fenris was doing under the table. It was soothing and the secretive nature of the act made him feel special...worthy. Just as quickly as the comforting gesture had arrived, it disappeared, and instead of holding Anders hand, Fenris placed both palms on the table.

“Shouldn’t we wait for Isabela? She would be oh so upset if she missed a round.” Merrill pointed out, her cheeks already rosey from one cup of wine.

“That you’re right, Kitten,” a sultry voice said from the door. 

Anders looked up from where he had fixated on the ghost of Fenris’ touch and his breath left him in a wheeze, leaving him coughing furiously into his elbow. Now that he saw her face, he felt foolish for not putting all the hints together. 

“Such a betrayal. And to think I was going to say drinks were on me tonight.” She set two bottles of top shelf whiskey down on the table.

“There you are!” Varric said as he masterfully shuffled the deck of cards. “Rivaini, this is Blondie. Hawke’s new special healer. “

Her eyes landed on the mage and they twinkled with mirth. She licked her lips and gave him a wide, toothy grin. “There’s no need to introduce us, Varric. Sparklefingers and I are... very well acquainted.” 

His heart plummeted into the pit of his stomach. Of course she remembered him.

“You know each other?” Fenris pressed.

“Oh yes, intimately.” Isabela sauntered forward and took the empty seat directly in front of Anders. She leaned forward, letting her cleavage spill onto the table. 

“Uh, you look well. You changed your hair. It looks nice.” Anders said weakly.

“Why thank you, darling. You look quite delicious yourself.”

“Am I missing something?” Hawke chimed in, looking between the two of them bewildered. “Have you been sneaking out of the mansion to have an affair with my favorite pirate?” 

“He hasn’t left.” Fenris grunted, fixing the mage with an uncertain glare.

“Oh no. This was, what, eight years ago, pet?” 

Anders nodded numbly, not quite convinced that he wasn’t trapped in an embarrassing nightmare. He half expected to look down and find himself in only his smalls. 

“Oh, but I remember it like it was yesterday.” Isabela continued. “He can do this electricity thing that could absolutely make your toes curl.” 

Anders slumped forward and put his head on the cold surface of the table. Maybe if he tried hard enough he could sink into the stone slab, never to be heard from again.

“Stop, you’re embarrassing him.” Aveline scolded.

“Whatever you say, big girl.”

“Whore.” She muttered under her breath.

A card hit the top of Anders’ head. He looked up from where he was trying to blend in with the table to see Varric’s sly grin as he dealt everyone their hand.

“Don’t fret, Blondie.” He said. “You’re not the only one whose fallen for her charms. Hawke slept with her, too.”

“Varric!” Hawke spluttered, his face becoming as red as the mark he sported. “How do you even know that?!”

“You’re not the only little bird I hear rumors from. There is this seabird I know who gives me the juiciest scenes for Swords and Shields.”

Hawke whipped his head to the left. “Isabela!” He pouted.

“Oh don’t be jealous of Anders, darling. You were good, too.”

“What- I’m not-”

Fenris cleared his throat. “Shall we begin?” He stared at Isabela over the top of his cards, which he held in an iron grip, causing them to crease between his fingers. 

“Wait! Let me get the King’s Cup ready, first.” Isabela said

There was a series of groans, mainly coming from Aveline and Sebastian, as the pirate liberated Hawke’s half-full wine glass.

“I was drinking that.” Hawke grumbled, although there was no real venom in his words.

“You can always buy another, Messere Champion.” Isabela uncorked the liquor bottles she brought and began pouring a little bit of each in the glass. 

“For those of you who don’t know about this little tradition,” she began, giving Anders a wink before going around the table and snatching everyone’s drink, adding a bit of each into the cup. “Whoever gets the worst hand after each game gets the honor of drinking The King’s Cup.” 

She set the glass in the center of the table where Anders could see the murky brown liquid swirling slightly. If Justice could gag at the prospect of drinking that, he would. In fact, he felt a little nauseous himself, even without the whole adverse stance on liquor. 

With the deck dealt, everyone picked up and examined their cards, Anders included. He had only played a few times before and that was with Isabela many years ago in the Pearl as she was the one who had taught him the game. He already knew that Isabela was a dreadful cheat and he was sure he wouldn’t be able to catch her now. He glanced over at the other players as they inspected their first hand. 

Varric was hard to read and Anders wouldn’t be surprised if he too had a propensity for cheating. Hawke was focused as he organized his cards and Anders believed that his hand could go either way. Both Aveline and Sebastian seemed to be putting up a neutral facade, but they probably had decent hands to begin with. Poor Merril was easy to read, even for him. She dropped her chin onto her fist and sighed as she looked at her cards. Surprisingly, Anders found Fenris the easiest to read out of them all. He had a deep scowl plastered on his face, but it was different then his usual glowering. He was upset, that was clear. Anders wondered just how bad his hand was. With that look, probably worse than his own. 

Out of the five cards he held, he only had one match within the suit of songs. It wasn’t necessarily a bad hand, as it had room for growth, but it was up to him to cultivate it and make it a hand worth competing with--a skill he had never truly mastered. 

“Alright, we will start off our betting at ten copper.” Varric said.

“So low?” Hawke complained.

“Maybe low for you, rich man.” Isabela jabbed, as she pulled out a small coin purse hidden in her cleavage.

Everyone began collecting their coin and placing it on the table around the King’s Cup. Everyone except Anders. 

He placed his cards face down and felt heat rise to his cheeks. “I’m sorry… I didn’t know we would be betting real money. Which is really stupid now that I’m saying it out loud. I don’t have the coin. Used it all up to get here, I’m afraid.”

Hawke opened his mouth to protest, but Anders lifted his hands to placate him. “It's okay! I can just watch.”

“You know,” Isabela said slyly, “there are other ways you could repay the group for losing. Or at least me, but I don’t think I’m the only one who would appreciate that wicked tongue of yours.” 

Anders' face flushed bright red. “Uh…,” he stammered. There was once a time where he could parry Isabela’s advances with words that would make even the pirate blush. Somewhere along the way he had lost that part of himself. There was a clatter in front of him. He looked down to see Fenris’ hand wordlessly retreating and a pile of copper in front of him. He gave the elf a soft smile. “Thank you.”

Fenris grunted and kept his eyes focused on his cards. Anders gathered up the copper pieces and added the coins to the pile. Then the game began. 

Starting from Varric and working counter-clockwise, the group started drawing and discarding cards. When it was Anders' turn, he drew the Serpent of Pride. He already had his pair of Songs, (the Song of Love and the Song of Courage), another Serpent (the Serpent of Lust), the Wolfhead Dagger and the Angel of Truth. He quickly debated between his options before deciding to discard the Wolfhead Dagger to keep a pair of Serpents, even if it was the lowest ranked suit. 

During Fenris’ turn, Anders found his eyes straying towards the elf. His gaze lingered on the man’s hands as he drew his card. The mage truly needed to nip his desire in the bud before it got out of control. For a moment, he wished he had stopped at the bar to get a drink. The wine Varric had given them wasn’t nearly strong enough to distract his roaming thoughts. Although, he was not entirely sure having a fuzzy head would prevent him from staring at his new found friend.

When the round came to Varric, he raised the stakes by five coppers. One by one, the sharp ting of metal on stone echoed throughout the room as the group effortlessly rose to the challenge. When it was Anders’ turn to add to the pot, Fenris plopped down a few more coins in front of him.

“Fenris, you’re no fun,” Isabella quipped. “You could have at least let me try to talk him into playing strip Wicked Grace instead.”

The elf rolled his eyes and took a long gulp from his wine.

“I was hoping I’d get a chance to see if you still have your nipple piercings,” she added. 

Fenris coughed into his glass and glared at Isabela. His ears had turned a dark shade of pink.

“I guess it will remain a mystery,” Anders replied as he discarded the Dragon’s Tooth Dagger.

When the round came back to Isabela, she smiled smugly before placing the Angel of Death in the center of the table for everyone to see. There were some grumbles from the group, the loudest being from Merrill as it was quite obvious to anyone watching that she had a terrible hand from the start. Anders spread out his cards face up and watched as the party did the same. 

As expected, both Isabela and Varric had good hands, though the pirate’s cards were slightly better than the dwarf’s. Hawke, Aveline, and Sebastian had decent hands, but nothing that could stand up against Isabela. Anders didn’t have a bad hand per say, but if it weren’t for Merrill--who didn’t have a single match--it would have been his unfortunate duty to drink the King’s Cup. 

The mage was surprised by Fenris’ hand, however. He thought that the elf was scrambling from a rather dastardly combination of cards, based on the gloom that had settled over him once the game began. But Fenris didn’t just have a good hand,he had an excellent one. Apparently, Anders wasn’t the only one fooled by his expressions. As Fenris revealed his hand, Isabela’s shit-eating grin dipped into a scowl. She knew that her full house had no chance of beating Fenris’ four Knights and Serpent of Jealousy. The elf focused her with a hard stare as he scooped the pile of copper coins into a black leather pouch. She eyed him warily in return.

As Varric gathered everyone’s cards and shuffled for the next game, the little Dalish elf pinched her nose and chugged the King’s Cup. It didn’t take long for the light flush of her face to become a heady red. She giggled and leaned onto Isabela for support, not that the pirate minded one bit. 

It took two more games, in which Anders barely scraped by, before he finally had the worst hand of the group. The match was short. It only took two rounds before Merril pulled the Angel of Death and everyone was forced to reveal their cards. Anders had one matching pair, but that was not enough to save him from his fate. He knew this would happen eventually; he’d always been shit at card games. From the moment he agreed to play Wicked Grace, drinking the King’s Cup became inevitable. 

Anders stared apprehinsively at the wine glass. This specific version of the King’s Cup reeked of alcohol. The liquid inside was supposed to be clear, but it looked foggy, like dust swirling around a disturbed river bed. 

Isabela nudged the glass closer to the mage. “Drink up, darling. We don’t have all night.”

**We will not be drinking that.**

Although his gut and taste buds agreed with the spirit, Anders couldn’t help but feel a twinge of annoyance. It was his body first, damn it! If he wanted to stuff his mouth full of what was sure to be an absolutely vile drink, then it was damn well his right to do so. 

He stood and mockingly bowed to the table, lifting the glass in the air in a little toast before knocking the drink back like the most hardened of dwarves. He had a demanding desire to spit it all out as soon as the liquid hit his tongue. Truth be told, that urge did not belong only to Justice. The King’s Cup tasted like moldy corpses and ass, which was high praise considering that it tasted worse than the darkspawn blood he drank during the Joining. His throat burned as he swallowed the putrid concoction. It was far too long before the glass was empty and he slammed the cup a little too forcefully on the table. 

Anders’ nose wrinkled involuntarily at the lingering aftertaste and the scalding heat that had settled in his stomach. Without a doubt, there would be repercussions. He was not as young as he used to be, and although the blight in his blood gave him some fortitude, that concoction alone was easily four shots of mystery liquor, and then some.

By the fifth game of the night, Anders’ chin was resting in his palm and he wasn’t really paying attention to his cards. Instead he let his focus meander to something, or rather someone, who was much more interesting. No, his eyes were all for Fenris. Thanks to Isabela’s alcohol of death, his vision had gone soft around the edges, giving the elf’s white hair a silvery glow. Fenris had such beautiful hair. It looked fluffy too. Anders wanted to run his fingers through it.

The mage was so distracted that it took him until the eighth round to realize that he had pulled the Angel of Death and that the card had been in his hand for quite some time. He was even more startled to discover that he had a wonderful hand, four songs in total. Anders smiled to himself as he tucked the Angel of Death between his cards, safe and sound. If the rogues could cheat, then so could he.

When it was Varric’s turn shortly after, the dwarf sat back in his chair and announced, “I fold.”

Hawke squinted at him. “What? Why?”

“If Blondie is grinning over there, then we are all doomed.”

“Can’t I smile at your beautiful face, Varric?” Anders reasoned, batting his eyes at the dwarf in the perfect impression of a demure farm girl. “Is that such a crime?”

“Don’t mind him, darling,” said Isabela. “You can smile at this beautiful face all you want. I promise I won’t bite.”

Anders threw her a wry smirk. “Oh, but if I remember correctly, that’s not true at all.”

Isabela’s eyes glinted with a hint of mischief. “Would you like to refresh your memory?”

“Are you offering?” the mage chuckled. He felt so loose and carefree. Why on earth did he stop drinking?

**I could provide a long list of reasons why drinking is not only bad for your health but is also the cause of many bad decisions.**

Anders paid the spirit no mind. He was warm. He was happy. He was not going to let Justice and his logic take this night from him.

“Get a room...,” Hawke grunted under his breath.

“Oh, but I have a room, Hawke. It’s right down the hall, in fact. You’re welcome too, you know. I shouldn’t be the only one who gets to experience Sparklefingers’ talents.” The pirate wiggled her fingers and bit her lip, clearly trying to taunt the man. 

Hawke’s eyes unconsciously flickered over to Anders. It was for a brief moment before he fixed his gaze back to his cards, but the mage knew the look for what it was. Hawke was hungry with an appetite only one thing could sate. 

Anders felt a blush rise high in his cheeks. It was a new but familiar companion to the red flush brought on by the alcohol in his system. There was nothing quite like being wanted, being desired. So few had looked at him with unabashed ferver in the past few years. Those who had weren’t nearly as magnetic as Hawke, nor as tantalizing as Isabela. Maybe he could give it a shot again? Not love, surely, as that road had begun and ended with Karl. Lust, however, was an easy, fleeting affliction. Once he scratched this rising itch under his skin, maybe his mind and heart could be clear again. 

“I suppose…,” Hawke trailed off, his eyes once again darting to Anders.

Isabela licked her lips and she opened her mouth to speak. Maybe she planned on inviting the men to her room at that moment. Maybe she wanted to profess her undying love for the Maker. Anders would never know, for as soon as her lips parted, Fenris’ voice--loud and jarring--broke through the tension.

“Who’s turn is it?” he blurted.

“I went while those fools were flirting,” Aveline said, nudging Merrill gently with her elbow.

“Oh, I guess it’s me then!” the dalish elf chirped. As she drew her card and looked over it quizzically, Anders found his eyes drifting away from Hawke and Isabela. 

Whatever peace of mind Fenris had at the beginning of the night had all but faded away. He looked just as spiky as his armor, all rigid with growing creases between his brow and his top lip curled up in a snarl. The elf’s knee roughly bumped into the mage’s own and there was a thunk underneath the table. Anders heard Isabela curse as Fenris fixed her with a sneer. He really was in a terrible mood, but even so the mage thought he had the most beautiful eyes. They were so large and vivid like pools of moss! Anders wasn’t sure if moss could even be pools. Pool was such a weird word. The shape of it felt weird in his mouth. Pool pool pool.

“Anders, it’s your turn,” Hawke said, pulling him from his drunken haze.

Fenris looked at him then. Anders was too drunk to be ashamed that the elf had caught him staring, but the heat in Fenris’ eyes made him quickly turn his attention to the cards as if he had been stung. Right. There was a game to be played and money to be won. 

All he needed was one more song and he would absolutely wipe the table with his hand. There wasn’t a shadow of doubt in his mind. Of course, the odds were slim that another song would find its way into his hand, but for a moment he let himself believe he was lucky. 

Anders closed his eyes, drew a card, and added it to his hand. Taking a deep breath, he opened them again. In his hand was a set of five songs. He glanced up at the ceiling and began to cackle hysterically. The Maker smiled down upon him in the most trivial of ways. 

He retrieved the Angel of Death and wiggled the card in front of his opponents. “Cards down, ladies and gentlemen!”

As everyone laid out their hands--minus Varric who had wisely folded--Anders kept his cards close to his chest. He waited until all eyes were trained on him, apprehensive of his rather dramatic reveal he had planned. One by one he flipped over a card:

The Song of Temerity

The Song of Mercy

The Song of Courage

The Song of Love

And finally, The Song of Parting.

It was a nearly perfect hand and undoubtedly the best play of the night. 

Anders bathed in the looks of utter disbelief that swept across the room. “You should have trusted Varric.”

“I call bullshit!” Hawke sputtered. “I’ve never seen anyone get a full hand before!”

“If he was cheating, we would have all seen it. Anders doesn’t have a subtle bone in his body. Trust me,” Isabela sighed. “I’ve tried teaching him my ways.”

Anders gathered the coin, pulling it into a huge pile in front of him. It was the largest pot of the night. He couldn’t remember ever having this much coin at once, other than the gold given to him by Danarius for his trip to Kirkwall.

“You’re just jealous because you got the worst hand and have to drink the King’s Cup.” Anders said, sticking his tongue out at Hawke. 

The man gasped at such an outrageous accusation. “How dare you!”

It was then, over Hawke’s shoulder, that the mage saw Fenris at the door. “Oh, you’re leaving?”

Silent, Fenris hesitated for a moment before turning the knob and opening the door.

“Wait, Fenris! Hold up!” Anders frantically tried to fill his once empty purse with the coin. By the time it was full and he looked up, the elf was gone.

“Fenris...” He shook the alcohol fog from his head and stumbled over the bench trying to get to the door and follow him. Before exiting, he abruptly stopped and turned on his heel, addressing everyone in the room. “This was really fun! It was nice meeting you all!” And then he ducked out of the door.

Fortunately, Fenris hadn’t gotten far. He saw the white shock of hair bobbing through the thinning crowd near the bar and Anders chased after him as best as he could, shimmying and weaving through the sweaty bodies of the Hanged Man’s patrons. 

The cold night air rushed to wrap around Anders as he stepped out into the streets of Kirkwall. Fenris was nowhere to be seen. He ran in the direction he believed they had come from earlier that night, wildly looking down the inky black alleys hoping to see the moonlight glinting off silver hair and armor. Then he spotted him, a glowing beacon swaddled in the black velvet of the night sky. 

“Fenris!” he called out, as he ran towards the elf. Fenris walked on, not even acknowledging the man behind him. By the time he caught up, Anders was panting and out of breath. He bent over partway at the waist, hands on knees, gasping for air. “Did you not hear me? I called for you.”

  
  
  


The elf grunted and continued walking. Anders let out a ragged sigh and trailed after him. “Good thing I caught you. There’s no way I would be able to find the way home alone, even if I was sober.” 

Anders increased his pace, using his long legs to his advantage to walk side by side with Fenris. “Also-” The mage dug into his pocket and tossed the coin purse to him. The elf expertly snatched it out of the air. His sharp gauntlets dug into the worn leather. “My winnings from tonight, as a thank you for giving me the coin to play.” 

Anders had barely been able to finish his sentence before the coin purse was sailing back over, catching him squarely in the chest.

“Keep your coin, Mage,” Fenris spat. 

Anders furrowed his brow and looked from the coin purse back up to Fenris, who was already walking away. He put his winnings back into his coat pocket and followed after him with a huff. “What is with you? You’re acting weird.”

“It is none of your concern.”

“Of course it is,” said Anders. “You’re my friend.” 

“Friend?” Fenris snorted. “We are not friends, Mage.” 

Anders stumbled slightly over the uneven cobblestones. “What?”

“I am not your friend,” he repeated.

“Bullshit.” Anders drawled, dragging out the syllables and slurring the word slightly. “You like me and I like you.” 

“I do not!” the elf hissed, halting in the middle of the street.

“We’re friends Fenris, whether you like it or not, and as your friend, I know when you’re lying and upset. So why are you upset?”

Fenris grit his teeth together. “I am not upset.”

“No you’re just brooding extra hard tonight.” Anders rolled his eyes. 

Fenris glowered at him over his shoulder and stalked off. 

Anders kept up with him and tried again. “Why are you upset?”

“I am not upset, I am angry.” Fenris muttered.

“Okay, that’s a start. Why are you angry?” 

The elf cursed in Tevene under his breath. 

“Fenris...,” the mage began, placing his hand on the other man’s shoulder. The elf threw him off, and spun to face Anders.

“YOU!” Fenris screamed, the words ripped from his throat. “BECAUSE OF YOU!” 

Anders froze, his hand still hovering in the air. He could hear the elf’s voice echoing across Lowtown, the letters ricocheting off of old dirty buildings and back into the his ears.  _ Because of you _ .

Fenris breathed heavily as if it took everything to force those words out of his body. It probably had.

“Why?” Anders whispered, his voice small and unsure. Maybe he was wrong. He thought... he thought things were different.

Fenris ran his fingers through his hair, pulling back the white strands that usually fell in his eyes to reveal three white dots on his forehead that, somehow, Anders had never noticed before. His hair nearly stuck straight up from where he ruffled it. 

“I don’t know!” Fenris growled. 

“Did I do something? Say something wrong?”

“No! I-,” the elf faltered. “I don’t know.”

“Then what?” Anders said with indignation. 

“I DONT KNOW!” he roared. The scream that left Fenris was a broken one, and when he went quiet, he curled in on himself. Gone was the rage and the flames that spilled from his lips and licked up the sides of his face, turning his eyes to a mottled black. His brows pressed together and a sharp frown was carved into his skin, threatening to make its home there forever. Anders took a deep breath and waited. When he spoke again, his voice was soft and halting as he tried to put words to his tumultuous thoughts. 

“When I look at you,” Fenris rasped, “something gnaws at my insides, consuming me, and leaving this hate in its stead.” 

Anders gulped, and his voice was so soft it was nearly lost under the wind as it whistled through Lowtown. “Is it because I’m a mage?”

Fenris was quiet for a long time. There were many things Anders wanted to say. His soul screamed at him to break the silence, but Anders pressed his lips together and waited. He could hear his heart thumping in his chest. The dancing drums from before were gone. The beat was slow and steady and pounded through him like a funeral march. 

Fenris sighed and pressed the heel of his palms into his eyes. “I don’t know.” 

Fenris couldn’t stop repeating the sentence over and over again, like a cruel mockery of Anders’ writing lessons. ‘I don’t know’ was written in the air in the elf’s shaky hand. The words settled over them like a noose. Anders stared blankly at him. He was thankful for the alcohol; the aching pain burrowing into his chest would surely be worse if he was sober. He wasn’t sure if he could survive it.

Fenris took a deep breath and let his arms fall to the side. A single tear streaked down the side of his face and the moon made it glitter like the lyrium carved into his skin. “Let’s just go home.”

Anders nodded numbly and the two of them walked side by side in silence for the painfully long trek to the mansion. When they arrived, the mage went straight to his bedroom and shut the door behind him, encasing himself in darkness. He sagged against the door, not having the willpower to stand upright. He remained there until his feet began to ache. The pain kicked him into action and he shrugged off his coat, letting it slide to the floor. Every piece of clothing, but his smalls, followed it.

Anders felt his way to the straw mattress and collapsed into it, piling blankets around his body. He blindly reached out for his mother’s pillow and pulled it close to his chest. He stared into the dark void until purple and green patterns floated across his vision. Then his eyes drooped shut of their own accord and he slipped into unconsciousness.

***

Fenris sat at the edge of his bed, soaking up the flickering light of the candle on the end table. 

His shadow was thrown across the room where it grew to a monstrous size on the wall. It was a hunched over, ugly thing that stuttered and shook with the dancing flame. A bottle of Agregio Pavali rested by his feet. The paper insignia that originally wrapped around the bottle had been ripped off. The torn remnants littered the floor as he worried away at the paper and let the tattered pieces slip between his fingers.

Fenris had given up on sleeping hours ago. Whenever he tried he would toss, turn, and tangle up his sheets, no position ever satisfying his need for oblivion. He wished he could shut away his tumultuous thoughts and slip into blissful nothingness. His mind would do him no such kindness.

He played the events of that night over and over in his head, searching for a clue or an explanation as to why this rage had risen in him. He couldn’t explain it, that grating annoyance that sparked during the night’s game. The feeling continued to grow until it threatened to consume him. He didn’t know why or how this vile thing had spawned within him and taken up residence within his chest, like a feral beast lashing out. Was it born of fear or to protect himself? Fenris couldn’t decide. He knew only that Isabela was the breaking point. 

Her intended target was most certainly Anders, that much was clear. But Fenris, whose legs were splayed wide beneath the table, became the unintended victim of her affections. It took him a few moments to even realize what was happening, but as the toe of her boot brushed against his inner thigh and crept upward, Fenris had a visceral reaction. A swift kick to the shin was more than enough to not only cause her to retreat, but to also realize her mistake. 

Fenris saw red. The corner of his vision had begun to fade to black and he’d felt the pounding of blood thrumming through his body. It was too much. He’d had to get out of there. Fenris was no stranger to anger; it had been a constant companion for as long as he could remember. Over the years he had learned to walk away before his rage shot out of him like the white hot screech of a tea kettle. He’d tried to walk away, but Anders had followed, weaving between his legs like the feline he was, causing him to trip and fall. A month ago, the mage had called him a mutt. Maybe he was right to say so. For no reason whatsoever, Fenris bit the hand that cared for him.

Why had he not stayed behind? He’d seemed so eager before. Fenris wondered if the mage would have allowed Isabela to touch him if his leg hadn’t been in the way. He wondered if Anders would have enjoyed it as her toes teased up his calf, across his thigh, and then… No. He didn’t want to think about that. He tossed the remaining bits of the ripped up label. He didn’t want to think about anything.

If only he could go back to a simpler time, to the days where he didn’t need to think. The days where all he’d cared about were the wills and wants of his master, and all he’d had to be wasa blank slate of clay for someone else to mold. He wouldn’t have to worry about anything. There were rules and expectations, but at least he understood those rules. The life of a free man was too complicated. He could be content, if only he could just forget. 

Bile rose in his throat and he hurled that train of thought from his mind as surely as he had done to dozens of bottles of Danarius’ favorite wine. He could no longer be the magister’s complacent toy. He would never return to being a bottomless pit that lived to fulfill another man’s desires. He had fought for his freedom. Friends had died for his freedom. It was no way to repay their sacrifice with dark thoughts. Fenris would embrace freedom, and all the pain and complications that came with it.

He fell back onto the mattress and gazed through the skylight. The moon bathed him in a soft white light, and under the waning crescent, Fenris found resolution. He refused to pick and prod and delve into his anger any longer. Every time he tried to unravel his thoughts, they just became more knotted and tangled. It was there, and no amount of dissection would rid him of it. However, he would not let his mind be a harbor for his own destruction. Fenris was angry and Anders was the cause. It wasn’t fair, he knew, but he couldn't change how he felt, so he decided to feel it. 

Fenris thought of every single moment that had riled him up that night. He flipped through the memories slowly, not analyzing why, but just letting himself feel the poison spread through his chest and into his gut. He took a deep breath and held it in until the uncomfortable stretch in his lungs transformed into a shredding pain. Then he simply let go. 

As the breath hissed out of his throat, so did the black ichor clouding his thoughts. The anger was still there, of course, but it was mollified. Fenris felt like a snake that had shed his skin. It was painful, but his soul was lighter because of it.

He scooted further onto the bed and rolled under the covers. He quickly scanned the room before making sure that Lethendralis was in arms reach against the headboard. Once satisfied, he let out a long sigh, shifted until he got comfortable, and allowed his eyes to flutter closed.

It was then, as Fenris hovered between consciousness and tiptoeing past the veil, that he heard a scream. He leapt to his feet, brands blazing and his great sword held within a firm grip. He teetered on a razor’s edge as he tried to blink the drowsiness from his eyes. Exhaustion could wait, an intruder’s blade would not. He needed to be alert.

The lyrium’s harsh light filled Fenris’ room and a quick check confirmed that everything was placed how he left it. He wondered if he had imagined the noise, or maybe he had already entered the fade. This wouldn’t be the first dream that had forced him to rise from his bed and chase after the tail of Danarius’ robes as the magister fled down a maze of corridors. Then he heard it again, much softer the second time; a whimper coming from Anders’ room.

Fenris extinguished his brands, leaving only the moon’s gentle glow to guide his way. He slowly opened his bedroom door, stopping before he reached the point where the hinges liked to squeak. He shimmied through the narrow opening and out into the hallway. The elf made his way across the hall, careful to keep his steps light and measured to avoid the loose floorboards. Once he neared Anders’ room, he pressed his ear against the wall, searching for the tiniest shuffle or the soft ringing of a blade being pulled from its sheath. There was only silence at first, but then Fenris heard it: a voice quiet and muffled, pleading in a foreign language.

He activated his markings, clenching his jaw tight against the pain, and stepped through the wall. Freedom of movement was one of the many advantages the lyrium gave him, though it had its drawbacks. Whenever he traveled through solid objects, he could only bring items imbued with lyrium along with him. His sword and armor were created for just that purpose. The clothes he wore to bed, however, were not. Instead they were left behind the other side of the wall, along with Fenris’ sense of modesty. 

The elf raised his sword and charged ahead, deciding to assess the attackers in the heat of battle. But upon entering the room, all he found was a dark silhouette of a man curled into a small ball on the bed. Pillows and bedsheets were strewn about on the floor, but otherwise nothing was amiss. There were no enemies, just a nearly naked mage in deep sleep and a very naked elf with a large sword. 

Fenris turned a concerned eye on the mage. The scars on Anders’ back were freely exposed and they danced under the lyrium’s dim light. He was shivering violently and every so often he would mumble an unintelligible string of words, some of which were in the trade tongue and others completely alien to the elf.

Fenris leaned his sword against the wall and walked towards the foot of Anders’ bed. He hovered a few steps away, not quite sure how to handle the situation. The elf never had anyone to help him scare away his nightmares. How could he possibly help the mage?

Anders rolled over, knocking a small pillow out of his arms. It tumbled off the bed and bounced on the floor, landing in front of Fenris’ feet. The mage seemed to miss its presence as his hand limply reached out into empty space, grasping at the air.

“Bitte!” he begged, taking in a shuddering breath. “Verlass mich nicht.” 

Fenris stooped down and picked up the pillow. It was small and made of red velvet that had worn away in several patches. On the front of the pillow was an embroidered sun. The yellow thread was faded by time, and several stitches had broken loose and begun to fray. Fenris frowned at the symbol. Why would Anders, a champion of mage rights, own a pillow symbolizing the chantry? A low whine left Anders’ throat as his hand clawed at the air in a desperate search. The elf placed the pillow into the mage’s arms and he immediately tucked it tight to his chest. Fenris knelt by the bed and set an unsteady hand on the man’s shoulder. 

That was his first mistake.

Anders jerked back at the contact with a strangled yelp. The mage tried to scramble to his feet, but fumbled on the shaky surface of the mattress. Fenris quickly stood to help steady him. 

That was his second mistake. 

Not fully awake, Anders lurched away and lost his footing. There was a loud crack as Anders’ skull slammed into the corner of the headboard.

“Scheisse,” the mage grunted. One hand clutched the back of his head while the other drew the pillow close to his chest in a tight grip.

“Are you okay?” Fenris murmured. 

Anders' eyes fixed on him, foggy and vacant, but then recognition sank in. Anders removed the hand from the back of his head and cupped Fenris’ face. “You came.”

The elf nodded and couldn’t help but lean into the touch. His hand was so warm. “You screamed. I thought you were hurt.” 

“You came...,” Anders repeated with a soft dopey smile. 

Fenris found himself smiling too. “I’m here. It was just a nightmare.”

Anders lifted his hand off of Fenris’ face and into the elf’s white hair. “It’s soft,” he whispered, as if he was sharing a secret. 

Fenris chuckled. Was the man still drunk? 

Anders’ eyes went out of focus as he stared at the top of Fenris’ head. He squinted in the darkness and frowned. “You’re bleeding.” 

Fenris ran his own hand through his hair. He could barely make it out in the dark, but there was a streak of blood on his palm. The mage tutted nervously and began examining Fenris up and down. Then his eyes resolutely remained on the lower half of the elf’s body and he blinked owlishly. Anders cocked his head to the side and his eyes flickered back to Fenris’ face.

“Why are you naked?” 

“Oh- um,” Fenris fumbled, suddenly realizing how uncomfortable it must be to see a naked man hovering over your bed in the middle of the night. 

Anders grabbed his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “It’s okay.” The mage’s grip was hot and slick, dripping in blood.

“Venhedis!” He tugged his hands out of Anders’ hold and reached behind the mage’s neck. He slid up the back of Anders’ skull and through thick patches of wet hair that tangled between his fingers. Anders melted against him and burrowed his face into Fenris’ shoulder.

“Don’t squirm, Mage,” he ordered, trying to adjust to the new angle.

“Not a worm,” Anders mumbled into the crook of Fenris’ neck. He could feel the press of the mage’s lips against his skin as he spoke.

The elf rolled his eyes and continued his search. Rivulets of blood had begun to roll down his forearms, but the mage’s wound remained hidden in his long mess of hair. Fenris pulled his hands back in defeat. It wasn’t working. He needed light. 

“Can you walk?” he asked.

The mage nodded and Fenris grabbed his elbow and pulled him to his feet. He helped him take a few steps to the door before Anders began to lean heavily on the elf. His face had taken on a pale and sickly sheen. 

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” he said through gritted teeth.

The blood was already concerning, but nausea as well? Fenris scowled and scooped him up, cradling Anders in his arms. He walked quickly back to his room, but tried to make the journey as gentle as possible, to not jolt Anders’ head which leaned against his chest. A red stain was already blooming across his skin. This was bad. Very bad. Fenris felt like a hand had closed around his throat. 

Upon entering Fenris’ room, a moonbeam fell across Anders’ face. The mage’s beautiful strawberry blond hair was drenched in dark crimson. His long locks were tangled and clumped with sweat and blood. Fenris carefully placed Anders on his bed before flying about the room, frantically lighting candles. 

“Can you heal yourself?” he asked, throwing worried glances over his shoulder. He didn’t even register the hot wax dripping onto his fingers. 

“I’m a little froggy-” the mage stopped short and giggled. “Fog-gy!” he corrected, over exaggerating the enunciation.

“Anders,” Fenris warned.

“I think so.”

“Do it,” he commanded.

Anders closed his eyes and furrowed his brow. A wavering blue light formed in his hands, shifting and flickering out of place like a mirage in a desert. He brought both palms to the back of his head and hovered over his skull. The process was long and it had Fenris pacing impatiently across the room until he decided to make himself useful and fetch a pail of water and a rag. On his way to the bathroom he picked up his discarded clothes outside of Anders’ room and pulled on his breeches. 

By the time he returned, the spell had grown strong and steady. A thin sheen of sweat covered Anders’ forehead and his lips twitched as he mumbled barely there incantations. Fenris watched him with bated breath until, at last, the light died out. Anders’ hands hung above his head in the air for a moment before he dropped them into his lap. He opened his eyes and looked up at the elf. 

Fenris froze, the invisible hand at his throat squeezed tight, choking him. “Did it work?”

Anders nodded, slow and disoriented. “I’ll be fine. I have a horrible headache, though I’m not entirely convinced that it’s due to the concussion, but rather the hangover.”

The elf could breathe again. The air whooshed out of his lungs in a shaky escape like a newborn fawn taking its first steps. He trusted the mage’s judgement, but his stare lingered on Anders’ hair that was marred red and dripping down his back. “Are you sure? There was a lot of blood.”

“I’m fine, Fenris. Head wounds usually bleed a lot.”

He looked doubtfully at the mage, and Anders returned Fenris’ glare with a weak smile that pulled at his lips in a mockery of reassurance. 

“I’m fine,” Anders repeated. “I promise.”

Fenris gave him a curt nod, but remained silent. What could he possibly say that would make things right between them? He didn’t know how to apologize for his anger when he didn’t even know why he was angry to begin with, or why his anger was directed at Anders. No. Words without meaning were not words worth speaking. Instead, he brought the pail of water to the edge of the bed. He dipped the rag and took Anders’ hand,slowly cleaning off the blood until the water turned pink.

Anders just watched Fenris wash the blood from his hands. Then Fenris moved to his hair, turning the strands back to their golden sheen. When the elf pulled away and began to blindly clean at the blood on his own face, Anders caught his wrist.

“Let me,” the mage mumbled. He took the wet rag from Fenris and dabbed at the elf’s cheek, where a smeared handprint lingered. The water was cold. It was a stark contrast from the heat that radiated off of the mage’s own skin.

Anders rinsed out the rag and began scrubbing out the small flecks of blood that had settled into Fenris’ hair. The elf involuntarily let his eyes flutter close as the mage’s nails dragged against his scalp. If he were a cat, he thought that this would have been his cue to purr. 

His chest was buzzing, practically thrumming with… something? Fenris couldn’t identify the feeling. It was somehow peaceful, yet at the same time as if his own fist had phased through his heart.

“I’m sorry for waking you,” Anders began, as he brushed Fenris’ blood stained fringe out of the elf’s eyes. “And for getting blood all over you.”

“There is no need for apologies,” he replied. The mage scrubbed the last bit of blood out of his hair and dropped the rag into the murky red water before drying his wet hands on his trousers. Fenris almost wished that Anders would keep his fingers tangled up and stroking through his hair.

“Still,” he insisted, biting at his lip. “I feel like I should.”

“Do you have nightmares often?” Fenris wondered. How many nights were spent curled up in that little room, Anders’ face twisted in fear, while Fenris slept soundly only a few doors down? 

“Yes. It’s an unfortunate side effect of becoming a Warden. They never warn you about the endless night terrors of dark spawn, broodmothers, and Archdemons before signing up,” he joked, cracking a wry grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. “It’s usually much worse during a blight or if you’re stuck in the Deep Roads. Otherwise they will just pop up on occasion. Although, they do have the most Maker awful habit of merging with other nightmares.”

Fenris fidgeted from where he knelt at the foot of the bed before deciding to get to his feet to sit next to the mage. “Perhaps… would you like to talk about it?”

“I… don’t know. I’ve never really talked about them before. Back in the Wardens everyone had them so there was no need, everyone just understood,” the mage shrugged. “And after, with Karl, well… he was used to my nightmares when we were in the circle together so it wasn’t that different.

“If you want to talk, I’ll listen,” the elf offered. “Hawke always tells me that I need to speak more and stop brooding or I will destroy myself from the inside out.”

“Do you? Talk that is.”

Fenris sighed. “I try to, but oftentimes I don’t know how.”

Anders nodded knowingly. “It’s easier to sit and stew in your thoughts.”

“Better a known pain than the unknown,” Fenris agreed.

Anders took a deep breath and exhaled, long and hard. His eyes tracked a flame from one of the candles as the light danced across the wick. Then he spoke.

“It’s always the same nightmare.”

Fenris hummed encouragingly. “How does it begin?”

“In darkness. I’m not particularly fond of the dark. I mean, I’m sure no one is fond of the dark, but for me… I fear it more than most I think.” Every word out of his mouth rolled off his tongue like lead sinking deeper into water. He kept his eyes glued on the tiny flame with a sort of desperation, as if it were a lifeline keeping his head from submerging. 

“I feel cold stone beneath me. I feel it all around me. I feel like I am suffocating in it. After a while the whispers will begin--taunting me with my deepest, darkest, desires and false promises. All the while there is a light scratching at the back of my skull that slowly gets stronger.” Anders wrapped his arms tightly around himself to ward off the dreamlike chill that haunted him. 

“Then I hear footsteps. Armored boots against a stone floor. It is the Templars and I’m left waiting, wondering, hoping that they will open my door; eventually they do. Even then there is still no light. I can hear them, smell them, feel them. But there is nothing to see. They toy with me at first. Then they use me and I let them. The scratching at the back of my head gets stronger, and it’s no longer the Templars touching me. It’s the darkspawn. Claws dig into my flesh. I smell the stench of death and I feel them inside of me but I do nothing,” the mage choked out, drawing his knees to his chest. “They tear me apart until all there is left is bone, and the dream starts again.”

Fenris stared at Anders, his mouth slightly agape and his brows deeply furrowed together. “Mage, I…” 

“Too dark, huh?”

“Your dream… Is it built off of memories?” he asked, hisvoice oddly hoarse to his own ears. 

Anders reluctantly nodded his head. “Their punishments never stopped me from escaping and going after Karl, so they tried something else and locked me away in solitary.”

Fenris winced. “For how long?” He had known fellow slaves who had been locked away for weeks, maybe even months at a time if their masters were truly cruel. Sometimes they would be so broken by the end of it, they would be sold on the market for a cheap sum as fodder for blood magic. Most took their own lives before it reached that point. 

“A year I think. Maybe more.”

Fenris felt the air leave his lungs in a rush. “A year!? How- how did you survive?”

Anders averted his gaze. “I don’t want you to think less of me.”

“I don’t think that I could,” he said softly. “There are many things that I have done in my time as a slave that I hope you wouldn’t judge me for.”

Anders smiled at him. It was faint, but genuine. “I wouldn’t.”

There it was again; the buzzing in his chest, the death grip on his heart. It was thrilling. It was terrifying. Fenris smiled back anyway.

“So, there was a cat,” the mage said fondly.

“Of course there was. One with a ridiculous name, I assume?”

“Mr. Wiggums is a perfectly respectable name for a cat!” Anders protested.

Fenris raised his hands in surrender. “Whatever you say.”

“He was the tower’s mouser and a grumpy old thing, but he would come visit me and keep me company.” His smile faltered. “He felt so real… But in hindsight, there was no way he could have gotten into my cell. The walls were solid and I don’t think Mr. Wiggums had the ability to phase through things like you, my friend. Being locked away in that place… I don’t think I was all there by the end of it.”

“Ah… I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s okay,” he assured. “Even if he wasn’t real, I’m glad he was there. He kept me together when the demons came for me, thinking I was easy pickings, and he was there to help me after the Templars visited.”

Fenris ground his teeth together. “In the dream you said- the Templars, did they…?”

“Rape me?”

The elf swallowed and nodded, already knowing the answer but hoping that the mage would shake his head and blame it on the nightmare.

“Not all of them. The kinder ones would talk to me. If I was especially lucky, they might pat my shoulder or hold my hand while they led me through prayer. But I yearned for the unkind ones all the same. They were rough, but they wouldn’t leave till they had their fill. It meant that as long as I did what they said, I wasn’t alone. For maybe an hour I felt like a real person before they left me to the darkness. I looked forward to their visits the most. As disgusting as it sounds, it’s the truth,” he spat. The mage’s fingers clawed into his skin, trying to rip away the ghost of unwanted touches. “I let them use me however they liked. All that mattered was that I wasn’t alone. Now, I will never be alone again.”

For a brief moment, Anders’ eyes flashed blue before sinking back to a warm amber. Fenris kept quiet, turning the story around in his head, giving himself the time to find the right words in the trade tongue. This was not the time to misstep like he had done so many times in the past.

“When you first came to live here, I called you weak for allowing a de-... for allowing Justice to become one with you. I apologize for that statement.” The elf cleared his throat, forcing himself past the awkward weight of his tongue. “For a man to be trapped in unspeakable circumstances and to still persevere speaks only of strength.”

Anders rested his chin on top of his knees. “Thank you Fenris. I was afraid you’d think I was crazy, or disgusting… or something. I don’t know.”

“How could I? Survival has a funny way of twisting your mind into wanting deplorable things.” He pulled his legs up from where they dangled off the side of the bed to sit cross-legged facing the mage. “As a slave, I had to learn how to bear the unbearable in any way I could. When Danarius used my body to find his pleasure, I let myself believe it was a great honor and a sign of my master’s love. I do not think I could have bared it, were it not for my mind sheltering me from the truth.”

Anders fixed him with an intense stare. “I hope you make his death painful.”

The corner of the elf’s mouth curled up in a snarl. “I intend to.” 

“Good,” the mage said through a yawn. His nose and eyes crinkled as he tried to keep it at bay.

“You should rest.” Fenris stood and stretched out his back. “Take my bed for the night. It would not be wise to keep the candles lit, but if you ever need light, you can see the moon through the skylight and you will know that you are not back in that place.” 

He headed for the door, picking up a candle along the way to light the dark hallway on his trek to one of the many unused spare rooms of the mansion.

“Fenris, wait!” Anders blurted.

The elf halted and looked over his shoulder. The mage’s eyes were wild and wide, and his breath fell quickly from his lips.

“Could, um… could you stay with me? At least till I fall asleep? I don’t want to be alone.”

“As you wish,” Fenris whispered. He circled around the room to blow out the candles one by one as the mage began to settle beneath the covers. When the elf sat beside him he could practically feel the tension radiating off of Anders. Before he could second guess himself, Fenris took the mage's hand into his own and brushed his thumb over Anders’ knuckles. 

“I’m here,” the elf promised. He hoped his worn out, grating voice came off as somewhat comforting. “Just look at the moon, Mage.”

Fenris kept his vigil at Anders’ side until his eyelids drooped so low that they couldn’t help but close. In the wee hours of the morning, before the sun even dared to break across the horizon, two men slipped into slumber with their hands intertwined.

***

Anders rolled over. Well tried to roll over, more like. Instead, his arm and leg were thrown across something very warm and much larger than a pillow. He cracked open one of his eyes to find Fenris curled up against him. His white hair haphazardly stuck up in a multitude of directions and the majority of his face was buried in a pillow. Anders lifted himself up onto his elbow and admired the elf’s peaceful expression. He hadn’t expected Fenris to actually stay with him till he fell asleep, let alone to stay the entire night, but he did. His chest felt warm and light, like when Pounce would curl up on his collar bone and purr into his ear. Anders lowered himself back down onto the mattress, sleepy and content. 

As his head hit the pillow, the mage accidentally jostled Fenris, causing the man to groan and shift underneath Anders’ weight. He sheepishly retracted his limbs as the elf slowly came to consciousness. Fenris blinked against the harsh light streaming from the ceiling. His brow wrinkled together and his mouth was set into his usual grimace.

“Good morning, Broody,” greeted Anders with a sleepy grin.

Fenris looked over at the mage, a befuddled expression taking root before last night caught up with him. He flopped onto his back, shielding his eyes from the sun. 

“What time is it?” he groaned.

Anders glanced up at the sky. “Almost noon, I think.”

“I am usually up by dawn,” Fenris remarked, his frown deepening as he sat up. He hissed through his teeth as his body adjusted. 

“It’s not a crime to sleep in,” Anders teased, back to his jolly self within the comfort of the sun.

Fenris grunted and began to slowly stretch his body. His rigid limbs reluctantly became more fluid, but not before the elf’s face soured further with each muscle he extended. When Fenris moved an area that seemed to be particularly sensitive, his teeth clacked together as his jaw instinctually clenched. 

“Are you alright?”

“It is just the brands,” the elf explained. “They make me stiff in the morning so I have to stretch. Unfortunately, that just agitates the lyrium more. It is only a little pain, nothing I can’t handle.”

Anders froze as realization dawned on him. “...How often does it hurt?”

“It always does,” Fenris deadpanned, as if it were the most ridiculous question the mage could ask him. “It just happens to hurt less when I move less. Activating the markings makes it worse, of course.

“Fenris, you should have said something!” Anders scolded. “I’m a healer! I could do something for the pain.”

“No,” the elf growled as he folded forward, reaching for his feet.

“No? But- I thought we-,” the mage stammered. “Why?”

“I can feel magic through the lyrium. If it is a spell cast nearby, it often just makes me uncomfortable, but when cast on me…” he trailed off. “Despite what you might think, I do not seek out pain if I can avoid it.” 

Anders scrambled to his knees. “What if I could take the pain away for a period of time? Even if the magic hurt initially? Do you think it would be worth it?”

Fenris sat up from his stretch and raised an eyebrow. “You have a spell that can do that?” 

The mage nodded eagerly. “I have a technique that basically stimulates your own body into healing itself while numbing pain. Because your body would be doing all the work, the only magic you would feel would be the spell at the beginning that sets it into action. I’m not sure if it will last as long as it does on my other patients, but it gave them a few hours of relief and it has the benefits of keeping a clear head that’s not fogged up by drugs.”

Fenris stilled, deep in thought, before looking into the mage’s hopeful eyes. “Okay.”

Anders smiled and placed a hand over his heart in a solemn vow. “I promise I will make it as quick as possible.”

Fenris sighed and squeezed his eyes shut. “Get on with it, then.” 

Anders shuffled around on the bed so that he was sitting behind him and placed his hands on Fenris' shoulders. The elf seized up at the contact as he braced for the pain. When casting this spell in the past, Anders would let the magic ebb into the patient’s body. However, that process took several minutes. He wouldn’t dare put Fenris through an extended period of pain. He would just have to improvise.

He gathered the magic into his fingertips, letting the power build up in his hands until they vibrated like a dam about to break. Then he released his magic into Fenris’ body letting it swirl beneath his skin. He paid special attention to direct the magic to the elf’s markings so that it surged down the lines of lyrium with the rush of a flooded river. Anders let the magic flow from the tip of Fenris’ head down to his toes. The lyrium glowed as it chased the spell like a cresting wave. 

Fenris slumped against his chest, an aborted noise rested in the back of his throat. Once he was sure that the magic had touched each corner of the markings, Anders let his power fade. Fenris remained limp against his chest and he felt fear gnaw at his insides. His patients often felt energized and refreshed after treatment. They were never weak and lifeless like the elf seemed to be. Did he miscalculate?

“How do you feel?” Anders chewed on his lip.

A small smile appeared on Fenris’ face that quickly bloomed into a full fledged grin. He opened his eyes and looked up at Anders, resting the back of his head on the other’s shoulder. “There is no pain.”

“Good, good!” the mage said, pleased. “And the magic?”

“It was different.” The corner of his eyes crinkled as the joy spread throughout his entire face. Anders felt as if he could fall into those eyes. 

“What did it feel like?” he whispered.

Fenris wet his lips as he struggled to find the words to describe the sensation. “It was like… like sinking into a cool river after your skin has been burned by the sun.”

“No pain?”

“None,” he replied, smiling again with a flash of brilliant white teeth. 

For as long as Anders had known him, Fenris had never shown joy with such abandon before. He couldn’t help but smile back. “I’m glad.” 

Fenris craned his neck up and Anders felt his breath catch in his lungs. When did their faces get so close? But then the elf blinked rapidly before sitting up, away from Anders. 

“Magic has never felt like that before,” Fenris mused. “When Danarius would cast on me, it always felt like needles squeezing through my bloodstream. ”

“Blood magic will do that to you,” the mage scoffed, wrinkling his nose. 

“It did not have to be blood magic. Even when he used practical spells, it always brought me pain,” he clarified. Fenris’ ears took on a pink tint.“But your magic did not feel like that at all. If anything it was… well it was magical.” 

Anders chuckled awkwardly as his face involuntarily flushed a bright red. “It’s probably due to the fact I’m a spirit healer,” he mumbled with a shrug. “You know, incredibly rare and all that.”

Fenris gave him an earnest look. “I do not think I have ever had a moment in which these markings have not burned. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome! I’ll do what I can to alleviate your pain. Once you feel the effects begin to fade, come to me and I’ll set you right.”

“You would do that for me?” asked the elf.

“Of course,” Anders said. “It’s my duty as a healer.”

“Of course…,” Fenris echoed.

“...And I can’t stand seeing you in pain,” the mage admitted.

Fenris’ eyes softened around the edges and he opened his mouth as if to say something, but nothing came out. Anders felt as if he was being allowed to see a side of the elf that rarely was allowed out of his carefully constructed and prickly exterior. They were teetering on the edge of a cliff and the mage desperately wanted to discover what lay on the other side.

“Anders-,” Fenris began.

But the mage didn’t hear what came next as down below, a voice bellowed, “Honey, I’m HooOOOoooOme!”

The two men gave each other an exasperated look. “Hawke,” they groaned in unison. 

Fenris chuckled as the two of them scrambled to dress in a more presentable manner to greet their guest. Anders couldn’t help but notice how agile Fenris was without the pain of the lyrium holding him back. He was already a remarkably quick warrior, but now his movements held a graceful fluidity to them. Anders was not a prideful man, but he couldn't help but feel an odd sense of satisfaction in his work. Although, he couldn’t completely attribute the feeling as belonging solely to him. Justice, too, felt like they had made significant progress in their goal of assisting the most curious elf. Their satisfaction was short lived, however, and was instead replaced by a unified cold determination formed by spirit and man. They only temporarily fixed some of the damage the magister had caused. There was much work to be done. Danarius had to die.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thanks to all of you for being patient with me as I continue this story at a slower pace than when it began. If you are new to the fic, hello and welcome! And if you have been waiting for me for the past few months, thanks for coming back! I appreciate every single one of you and I hope you are enjoying reading this story as much as I am enjoying writing it. Which means I hope you get through the angst and know it's going to be better on the other side! If you enjoyed this chapter and are interested in reading the next one, please feel free to subscribe, leave kudos, or just leave a comment saying hi.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and stay lovely!
> 
> !FUN FACTS!  
> 1\. This fic has gotten so long now in my google docs that sometimes it will crash my computer. To be fair, my mac is 8 years old- but still! I never thought I would be reaching 150+ pages.  
> 2\. The song that I imagine Isabela singing is "Maw of The King" by Cami-Cat. It is an absolute fucking bop and you can find it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IpHVY16CKw0  
> 3\. I had to do some research on how Wicked Grace is actually played and in the process, I fell head over heels in love with the game. I even starting dreaming up design ideas for the cards. If I make a deck, you are all legally obligated to play with me.


	8. Something There

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris meets an old friend from his past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you look at that! I’m back and it didn’t even take me half a year this time. I’m hoping to keep a semi-regular schedule in the future, or at least keep a much smaller time frame in between updates- but I do have a major surgery and a big move in the upcoming months so I won’t be surprised if that impacts future chapters. But I’m gonna give it my best shot!
> 
> Thank you to r1ns0 for beta reading this chapter. You are truly a lifesaver! 
> 
> And of course, please enjoy!

After that first night, Anders and Fenris found themselves developing a new routine. It began a few days after the original incident when, sometime in the middle of the night, Anders quietly entered Fenris’ room. He stood at the doorway shuffling his weight from foot to foot, not quite crossing the threshold, when Fenris--who was a very light sleeper--lifted the covers and shifted to the other side of the mattress. Then Anders scurried forward and crawled beneath the pile of blankets, where he wriggled around like a bird searching for a comfortable position to roost. But once he settled, the man almost immediately drifted off to sleep while the elf joined him shortly after. 

It took a week of Anders sneaking into his bed before Fenris decided to forgo any false pretenses. When Anders left to go to his room after their nightly lessons, Fenris raised an eyebrow as if the notion was simply preposterous. Although the mage’s face flushed at Fenris’ proposition, there were no complaints as he slipped into the bed and waited for the elf to finish blowing out the candles. 

Falling into bed together became their new normal. They spent their days sharing meals, doing the odd job for Hawke, snatching every bit of knowledge they could about Danarius’ plans, and improving Fenris’ literacy. Their nights were reserved for curling up next to one another; not quite touching, but simply taking comfort from the presence of another person beside them. 

As far as captive-turned-confidant relationships go they were rather successful. The unfortunate spat after Wicked Grace was long forgiven and their past animosity was long forgotten. Until it wasn't. 

It was supposed to be a simple job, but the two of them quickly learned that was rarely the case with Hawke. Varric had heard a rumor of holding caves in Sundermount that had recently been claimed by slavers. When Hawke had passed the message on to Fenris, he had practically leapt at the chance to accompany him. Anders insisted he come as well, of course, and the elf was more than willing to include him.

The three of them, including Isabela, headed up Sundermount that morning and scouted the area. To the untrained eye, the rocky path looked undisturbed, but Isabela could tell that there had been movement in and out of the cave. With Fenris taking the lead, the party entered the caverns, stealthily taking out small groups of slavers they encountered down the long winding tunnels. 

Roughly an hour into their excursion they came across seven humans lounging around what seemed to be a makeshift rest area filled with wooden crates containing ale and rations. The four of them managed to enter the room silently and find clever hiding spots before launching their attack. But Anders, who was crouching behind a stack of crates, tried to scoot around the corner to get a better vantage point when his tattered boot slipped on a pebble and knocked into the pile. The crates swayed before tumbling and shattering against the stone floor. All the slavers’ heads snapped towards the sound, their conversations coming to a staggering halt. A moment of silence hung precariously above the slavers and Anders thought it was almost comical how they just stared at him as if he were a ghostly apparition. Then the real ghost’s brands flickered to life as Fenris surged through the wall he had ducked behind as if he were simply striding through a beaded curtain. 

If the slavers’ wide-eyed shock at Anders’ sudden appearance could count as surprise, then the appearance of the elf was abject terror. They stumbled away from him, many not even attempting to engage in battle if it meant they could find an escape. There was none to be found. 

Blades cut through flesh as lightning crackled in the air and the slavers fell, one by one. There was only one woman left standing, or rather groveling, at Isabela’s feet as blood gushed from her abdomen. Her eyes bulged from her sockets, unable to tear her gaze from Fenris as he approached.

“You weren’t supposed to be here,” she gasped. “You weren’t supposed to know.”

Fenris stalked forward, grabbing the woman by her collar and effortlessly lifting her into the air. “Know what?”

The woman coughed with the sudden movement and tiny red flecks spattered onto Fenris’ cheek, but he didn’t even flinch.

“She… H-Hadriana…”

Fenris’ grip tightened and his metal gauntlets ripped through the fabric. “What!?”

She tried to speak, but only blood gurgled forth from her lips as her breath stuttered and died in her throat. Fenris let out a savage yell and hurled the corpse away from him.

“Hadriana… Is that someone you know?” Isabela asked as she wiped the blood from her daggers on a slaver’s breeches. 

“She is my old master’s apprentice,” he explained. “If she is here, it is at his bidding. We need to find her. We can send a message to Danarius he won’t soon forget.”

Hawke’s eyebrows knit together into one furrowed line. “If she didn’t know we were here before, she does now. She’ll be ready for us.”

“Then we will give her everything we’ve got,” Anders said.

  
  


Fenris gave the group a curt nod and rapidly turned on his heel, pressing forward into the caverns with rigid determination nearly leaving the rest of the party in his wake. 

The caves were not easy to traverse. The twisting tunnels brought them to room upon room, most of which were nearly identical in construction, but were all aggravatingly empty. It was after two dead ends that they finally stumbled into a large chamber, where several men clad in shoddy leather armor were guiding a line of elves into a narrow corridor. The elves were unchained and dressed in plain, but clean clothes. They could have been any of the elves in Kirkwall’s alienage if it weren’t for the collars around their throats. 

“Lupus advenit!” shouted a slaver near the end of the line. Several of the elves cried out as two men began to roughly shove them toward the exit while the remaining slavers drew their weapons. There were roughly ten of them, leaving the party greatly outnumbered, but Anders liked their odds. 

Although he had not fought with them long, Anders easily slipped into the role of a protector. Before the slavers could take a single step towards them, a golden aura of heroism draped over his companions replenishing their energy and hardening their resolve. Then there was only chaos. 

Hawke dropped into a deep lunge, thrusting his hands into the solid slab of rock beneath him. The stone floor crumbled and crawled up his arms, encasing his body in a thick rock armor, leaving only his eyes exposed to the elements. He twirled his staff and a wave of heat crested throughout the room, alighting Fenris’ and Isabela’s blades with red flames as they charged to meet the slavers. Never one to remain on the sidelines, Hawke rushed ahead and collided with a slaver, tackling her to the ground. His fist, frozen in rock, connected with the side of her cheek. If it weren’t for the sound of clashing steel, Anders would have heard a sickening crunch. Hawke hit her again and again. The woman’s hands clawed uselessly at the stone surrounding him until her arms fell limp, her face an unrecognizable mess of skin, hair, and bone.

A large bald man, with his head covered in scars, appeared behind Hawke and raised a large mallet above his head that would surely split the stone and rattle the mage’s bones. Anders refused to let that happen. He called upon a violent shock of power from his core that burst from his palms and into his staff, which channeled it into a powerful bolt of electricity. It hit the slaver in the nape of his neck, jagged strands of light flickering up and down the man’s body as his muscles seized together. The hammer slipped from his grasp, slamming into the floor, and leaving behind a sizable crack. Shortly after, the slaver joined his weapon--unmoving on the stone, smoke drifting from his scorched leathers.

Out of the corner of his eye, Anders saw twin daggers flashing in the dim light. By the time he turned his head, Isabela had disappeared, and a corpse lay only a few feet from him. He didn’t even get a chance to say thank you. He caught sight of her again across the chamber, nearly obscured in shadow as she dueled two slavers. The fire dripping off her blades forced the men to keep a wide berth, but like her, they were quick. They ducked, dodged, and wound around each other in a choreographed dance, avoiding all of her attacks. With a frustrated growl, Isabela threw her dagger, and it buried itself deep into one of the men’s chest. She then spun around in a rapid succession with a wide arcing kick that caught the other man’s jaw with the heel of her boot. Blood and spittle flew from his mouth and spattered against the pirate’s cheek as she drew close to drive her other dagger into his gut. 

Anders scoured the battlefield for Fenris, who was relatively easy to find. The elf was a blinding beacon as he slashed through the slavers in his path. Fenris kept his massive blade close to his body, only lashing out when someone came too close. There was a trail of men and women behind him with fatal blows carved into their flesh--still alive, but stumbling and quickly succumbing to the death he wrought. Fenris cut a long gash on the outside of a slaver’s thigh and continued his march. The man staggered after him, lunging at the elf’s exposed back. Before the sword could make contact, however, the slaver froze as his skin grew pale and grey like slate. Isabela placed a firm foot on the slaver’s back--it didn’t take much to send him toppling and shattering against the floor. 

An arrow grazed across Fenris’ neck, but he either didn’t notice or didn’t care as he pressed on, resolute in his attempt to reach the slaves before they were all removed from the cavern.

Anders saw the faint red line against the elf’s skin and for a moment he thought he might vomit. If it were only an inch or two to the right, Fenris would have been… No. He couldn’t fathom it. He was such a foolish, stupid, idiot elf, always charging forward with no regard for his own safety. Anders felt his magic expand and stretch out from his chest like an elastic band. He let it flow over Fenris and willed it to harden into a shield. The next arrow glanced off the invisible barrier as did the third. 

Then a sharp pain dug into Anders’ left shoulder, forcing his magic to recoil in on itself. The shield snapped back into his body with such force that Anders was knocked down to one knee. Another arrow whizzed above him, right where his head had been moments earlier. He hoped the shield had been enough. 

Fenris was fine, to the mage’s relief. The archer lay dead and he was already clashing blades with another slaver who was attempting to use an elvhen girl as a shield. A well-placed blow had the slaver falling to the ground, blood spilling from the ragged gash across his chest and over Fenris’ bare feet. 

Then there was silence. The loud crashing and clanging had stopped. There were no explosions of magic through the air, just the faint ringing of the fight’s aftermath and dead men taking their last ragged breath. 

Fenris took a step toward the elf girl. She was the only slave who he had managed to keep from being forced out of the room. The girl flinched and pressed herself flat against the wall. It was wet with the spray of blood and she whimpered when her hand made contact. It was still warm. 

Fenris paused and took a few steps back. “Are you hurt?” he asked.

She shook her head rapidly. Her pale blonde hair swung across her face, brushing against her hollow cheeks. “They said they were going to kill us. They started with papa. They cut him, bled him…” 

Fenris grit his teeth together, biting the inside of his cheek till he could taste the sharp tang of blood. “Why? Why would they do this?”

The girl let out a shaky breath. “The magister… she said she needed power, that someone was coming to kill her.”

Fenris set his gaze to the ground and focused on the slavers’ blood that trickled between his toes. He tried to swallow past the lump that had formed in his throat, but he couldn’t breathe--the air was thick with blood and it was choking him.

“We tried to be good!” the elf wailed, heavy sobs heaving from her chest. “We did everything we were told! She loved papa’s soup. I don’t understand…”

Anders came up from behind and hovered a hand over the shallow wound on Fenris’ neck. His magic skittered across the surface of his palm, but he left enough space for the elf to pull away if he wanted to. Fenris leaned into his touch and grunted his appreciation. Hawke joined Fenris on his left side and placed a hand on his shoulder. 

“What’s your name?” Hawke asked the girl, his voice soft and soothing.

“Orana,” she whispered.

He gave her a kind smile. “I’m sorry we had to meet under these circumstances, Orana. My name is Hawke. Do you think you can help my friend?”

She bobbed her head and leaned away from the wall.

“Good,” he said with his signature grin; the one that felt like the aftermath of eating too many sweets. “Is the magister still here?”

“I think so.” Orana wet her lips and wrung her hands together. “She said they were to prepare for battle. I think she’s very frightened.”

“She has every reason to be,” Fenris growled, clenching his bloody gauntlets around the hilt of his sword. 

Orana’s eyes flew wide and her lower lip began to tremble. “Please don’t hurt her! She’ll be so angry if you hurt her!”

Fenris flinched and his eyes glazed over, lost in another time, another place, before Hawke gave his shoulder a squeeze that dragged the elf back to the present.

“Everything was fine until today,” Orana mumbled, drawing her arms across her chest.

“It wasn’t,” Fenris bit out, low and hoarse. “You just didn’t know any better.”

Orana stared at him, although her posture was rigid, something akin to hope started to sprout in her eyes. “Are you my master now?”

Fenris recoiled, colliding into Anders’ chest and forcing the arrow deeper into his shoulder, but his groan went unnoticed. 

“No!” he spluttered.

“But I can cook, I can clean!” she protested. “What else will I do?”

“If you go to Kirkwall, I can help you,” Hawke offered. “Look for the Hawke estate in Hightown. Ask for Bodhan, he will help you get settled in. Tell him Garret sent you.”

Orana gave him a watery smile full of adoration. “Oh praise the Maker! Thank you!”

“Of course.” He gave her his hand and helped her step over the corpses. “You best head out now. It’s not safe here.”

She nodded eagerly. “Yes, Master.”

The group winced and Fenris stared at Hawke as if the man had become a stranger.

“Just Hawke is fine,” he corrected.

Orana’s face blanched, but after facing no reprimand, she cleared her throat. “Yes, Hawke.” She bowed her head respectively, then scurried out of the caves, following the trail of bodies the group had left behind like the old Anderfels fairytale of Hansel and Gretel. 

“I didn’t realize you were in the market for a slave,” Fenris snarled. 

Hawke’s eyes settled on the elf with the full force of a stern glare. “I gave her a job, Fenris.”

The elf wilted, his ears drooping beneath the weight of his shame. “Ah. Then… That’s good. My apologies.” He coughed and turned away from Hawke to face the hallway pressing deeper into the caverns. “Let's find Hadriana and be done with this place.”

“Hold up a moment. Anders is hurt.” Isabela called from across the chamber, pocketing a gold ring she had pried off of one of the corpses. 

Fenris head jerked to look at Anders. His eyes traced him up and down searching his body for injuries. 

“I’m fine,” Anders said as he began heading for the hallway. “Shall we be off?”

“No you’re fucking not, you have an arrow sticking out of you!” Hawke argued.

“Oh, that old thing? I’ll be fine. Let’s keep going.” 

“Pull it out and heal yourself, Mage,” Fenris ordered.

“It’s fine.” Anders insisted. “We don’t have the time.”

“Pull. It. Out.” Fenris hissed.

“It will take too fucking long! We need to get there before she does who the fuck knows with the rest of the elves.” A deep and discordant voice joined his own. “We have to stop her.” 

Fenris marched up to him and placed his left hand at the nape of Anders’ neck, while his right fisted around the shaft of the arrow and yanked it out himself. The blue haze floating in the mage’s vision vanished as it was replaced with ripping pain as the arrow tore its way out of his shoulder. Anders gaped at the elf, partly as he gasped in pain, and partly in pure incredulity. Fenris tossed the arrow to the ground and placed Anders’ hand above the wound. His own hand rested on top of his, gentle but applying pressure to the sudden rush of blood pouring out onto his coat. 

“Heal yourself, please,” Fenris murmured. 

So Anders did in silence, unable to look anywhere else but in the elf’s eyes. There was something tender lying in wait there. But as soon as Anders’ flesh knit back together and his hand fell to his side, that tenderness was gone and the party was moving. 

It did not take long for Fenris to find his quarry. If it weren’t for the panicked shouts, barked orders, and piercing screams that led them to Hadriana, they could have been guided by the crackle of magic in the air, or the heavy scent of iron that mingled with the acrid smell of shit and piss that followed when a corpse had recently released its bowels. 

Anders only caught a glimpse of Hadriana before the shades she had conjured rushed forward, concealing her face. But that small moment revealed enough to Anders. Hadriana was unhinged. Her dark hair was slicked to her forehead with sweat and flecks of blood. She had barely acknowledged Anders’ presence as she took in the sight of her pursuers. Her wide, panicked eyes were glued to Fenris and Fenris alone.

Anders barely had time to raise his staff before a hooded mass of shadow appeared before him. He cast a mind blast, knocking several of the shades away to a more comfortable distance. Anders knew he should focus on the enemies ahead of him, but he couldn’t help that his attention constantly strayed to Fenris. 

The elf had immediately flung himself into the fray at the sight of his former master’s apprentice. He glowed silver shifting into a ghostly, translucent version of himself as he drifted through the surrounding shades like stepping through fog. On the other side, the brands flickered and he became solid again, bringing up his blade to block the falling axe of one of Hadriana’s personal guards. The two of them seemed to be evenly matched as the guard pushed Fenris back, forcing him to lose ground. 

Hadriana’s eyes sparked with mirth as her guard’s axe carved a large gash into the elf’s forearm. He then aimed for Fenris’ neck, swinging hard and slicing through the air where Fenris’ head should have been if the lyrium in his skin had not flashed bright. The blade sliced harmlessly through the elf’s neck and the powerful force of the strike twisted the guard’s torso, exposing his back to Fenris. The elf took this prized opportunity to thrust his hand into the back of the man’s head, then solidifying. His skull splintered from where Fenris had entered it, and as he jerked his hand out, he brought pink and grey chunks with him. Anders felt a smug satisfaction at the look on Hadriana’s face.

Then there was a pained shout and Anders was drawn back to his other companions. A shade had cornered Isabela near the entrance of the room. Her blades were a silver flurry that sliced through the shade as ineffectively as cutting through water. It pushed her back against the wall as she resorted to dodging its attacks, hoping that she would be lucky enough for one of her daggers to find purchase in the slippery shadows. But her luck ran out as the shade clawed a deep gash into her hip. 

Anders brought his arms high over his head as an indigo mist swirled about him absorbing into the wood of his staff. When he slammed his staff into the ground, pale purple cracks split the earth and snaked toward the shade before exploding from the stone in a prism of light. The shade was lifted off the ground, its back blown backward as the crushing prison held it at bay. Isabela took that moment to dash away and seek out more solid targets. 

“DUCK!” shouted Hawke. Immediately, Anders slammed flat into the ground as Hawke summoned an inferno around himself that exploded outward, singeing the edges of Anders’ hair. A handful of slavers who had encroached upon the two of them were thrown backward by the blast. The shades, however, were only momentarily thrown off by the blaze before they glided through the flames. The fire licked up their dark forms as the shades screeched in a high, ear-splitting pitch.

Hawke grasped Anders’ forearm and helped pull the other man to his feet. Standing back to back, the two of them fended off the shades’ advances. However, with each shade that fell, two rose up to take its place. 

“DUCK!” Hawke shouted again. Anders dropped into a low crouch casting another mind blast before a ring of fire spiraled over his head and into the shades, where they evaporated into black smog. 

“GOOSE!” Isabela yelled out to them with a wild laugh as she and her daggers went tumbling by the two of them to face Hadriana. 

A frustrated cry tore from the magister’s lips. Her shades were dead, along with her guards. Her fate was closing in around her but she struggled like a fish on a hook. She drew a dagger from her side and pulled it across the throat of the remaining slave who cowered at her feet. The blood pulled itself out of the corpse and collected in the air as a floating pool until there was nothing left but a withered husk. The blood spread itself around her in a dome, hardening into a red translucent shield. 

Fenris brought his sword down on the dome with brutal strength, but it skidded off to the side. He tried again and again, to no effect. He roared something to her in Tevene before igniting his brands, intending to walk through the shield. The moment he made contact, all Anders could hear was the scream tearing through the elf’s vocal cords. His body remained frozen outside of the barrier. His head was thrown back, his mouth splayed wide open to the point that the mage was afraid Fenris would break his own jaw to rip open his cheeks. The markings flickered like a twinkling star and the haunting wounded noise Fenris made seared itself into Anders’ memory. 

Then all he knew was rage, all-consuming and roiling through his body like an unbridled storm. There was a sudden shift in his consciousness as his mind made space for his passenger. Their thoughts were one. Their body was one. But their righteous fury burned only for Hadriana. 

**“ENOUGH!”** They lifted their staff in the air and with a savage roar thrust it into the stone floor, calling down a massive bolt of lightning that blew a hole through the top of the cavern. When it connected with the arcane shield, there was a deafening clap of thunder as the dome shattered. Everyone within a 10-foot radius was knocked down, including Fenris who was tossed aside like a rag doll. 

They ran to him, falling to their knees at his side. Despite the pain he experienced, Fenris was both conscious and relatively unharmed aside from the gash across his forearm and a few sore spots that would surely be bruises in the morning. The elf’s eyes were squeezed shut as he tried to reorient himself and sit up. They grasped Fenris’ uninjured arm and helped Fenris get to his feet.

**“Your fight is not over yet, friend.”**

Fenris’ eyes flashed open and he recoiled, jerking his hand back. They flinched and Anders felt Justice quickly recede back into the recesses of his mind. The elf eyed them warily before nodding curtly and fetching his sword that had skidded across the stones during the explosion. 

Hadriana was still alive, of course. Some might have called her formidable, Anders would have called her a cockroach. Despite her resilience, it was clear she was on her last legs. Her slavers were dead and she had run out of fodder for her blood magic, but she still had herself. The magister pulled herself into a kneeling position from where she lay on the floor. She brought the dagger across her right wrist, siphoning the blood into a red mist that was absorbed into the surrounding corpses. For a few seconds, the cavern was still as the party recovered from the blow, then the bodies twitched. Slowly, they began to rise, their movements jerky and their flesh mangled and sloughing off their bodies due to the previous attacks that killed them. They drew themselves in a semi-circle around Hadriana, creating a defensive wall--invincible in the face of mortal pain. 

Fenris was the first one to attempt to break through the barrier. His sword was a gleaming flurry as he hacked and slashed through the bodies, gutting them and dragging out their entrails like red threads snagging on sharp corners. They swung their weapons wildly at the elf, lacking coordination, but still forcing Fenris to dodge killing blows. 

Hawke lent his aid in fire, but quickly realized his mistake as ducking under an arm consumed in flame became very dangerous, very fast. He then began to shape the earth, trapping their legs and arms in stone, leaving Isabela with easy targets. 

Anders focused the last bits of his mana to send short bursts of healing to everyone. The cuts on Isabela’s hip and Fenris’ arm stitched themselves together. They might have been small injuries, but he could see their performance drastically improve.

Isabela crawled up one corpse, wrapping her legs around its neck and snapping it with the power of her thighs. As it toppled beneath her weight, Fenris seized the opportunity to move forward through the gap and grab Hadriana by her throat. The bodies crumpled like marionettes with severed strings. 

Her fingers scrambled against his tight grip, as she used the last of her breath in a rasping plea to speak. “Stop! You do not want me dead.”

“There is only one person I want dead more,” Fenris spat.

“I have information, elf, and I will trade it in return for my life.” 

“The location of Danarius?” Fenris laughed, quick, dark, and spiteful. “What good will that do me? I’d rather he lose his pet pupil.”

“I have information about your past.” She clarified. Her eyes flickered to Anders, who stood over Fenris’ left shoulder. “And about Karl.”

“Karl?” The mage almost lost the grip on his staff. “What have you done?”

“Nothing,” she wheezed, through Fenris’ tightening fingers. Anders gave the elf a panicked look and his grip loosened before he tossed Hadriana to the floor. She took a deep gasping breath of air and rubbed the circulation back into her throat.

“Explain,” Fenris ordered.

“Karl left Tevinter over a week ago, determined to free you from the men who held you captive. He should have been here a few days earlier before I myself arrived. I was supposed to arrange a ship for both of you to return to Tevinter, but he never showed up to our arranged meeting.” She fixed Fenris with a judgmental sneer. “I assumed Danarius’ little wolf had discovered his plot and killed you both like the savage he is.” 

Then there was a blade pressed to Hadriana’s throat, held in a dark brown hand covered in gaudy jewels. 

“Best be watching what you say to my friend, hmm?” Isabela’s eyes twinkled with cold mirth.

She swallowed, the small movement causing a thin crimson line to appear across the bruise already forming around her neck. “You have a sister. She is alive. You wish to reclaim your life? Let me go, and I will tell you where she is.”

Fenris’ jaw went slack. “A sister…” 

“How do we know you’re even telling the truth?” Hawke asked.

“You don’t.” She said, “But I know Fenris, and I know what he’s searching for. If he wants me to betray Danarius, he’ll have to pay for it.” Hadriana wet her lips and continued, “You want to know who you were, Fenris? Then let me go.”

The elf grunted and Isabela backed away, bringing her blade with her.

“So I have your word? I tell you, and you let me go?”

Fenris knelt on the ground in front of her “Yes. You have my word.”

A nearly audible sigh left her at his admission. “Her name is Varania. She is in Qarinus serving a magister by the name of Ahriman.”

Fenris stilled, “A servant, not a slave?”

Hadriana nodded, “She’s not a slave.”

Fenris' mouth twisted as if he had eaten something sour and his eyebrows bundled up together like penguins huddling for warmth, then his face relaxed into a smooth mask. “I believe you.”

Hadriana’s eyes widened in recognition, but by then the elf’s hand was already cradling her still-beating heart and crushing it in his fist.

Her body slowly toppled onto the floor as if she didn’t quite realize or wasn’t quite ready to accept that she was, in fact, dead.

Fenris stood, his hand dripping scarlet. “We are done here.”

Hawke sighed, “We can’t be sure she was telling the truth.”

The elf rounded on him. “Of course we can’t be sure! This could be a trap! Danarius could have sent Hadriana here to tell me about this 'sister.’ Even if he didn’t, trying to find her would still be suicide! Danarius has to know about her and has to know that Hadriana knows.”

He took a deep shuddering breath and clenched his bloodied hand into a fist, puncturing the leather covering over his palm. “But all that matters is that I finally got to crush this bitch’s heart. May she rot and all other mages with her.”

Anders tried to keep quiet, to keep his face impassive. He knew that Fenris was unhinged and, as much as he hated to admit it, his mere presence would not help matters--despite knowing this, he let out a sharp gasp and gripped his staff close to his torso.

Fenris’ ears twitched and he turned to the mage. There was rage there true, but desperation as well. He needed Anders to understand. “You saw what was done here. There’s always going to be some reason, some excuse why mages need to do this. Even if I found my sister, who knows what the magisters have done to her. What has magic touched that it doesn’t spoil?”

Anders bit his lip and turned his eyes downward. He couldn’t look at Fenris in the face--not when his words cut through his coat and pierced his chest, not when the elf’s eyes begged for him to understand, to see reason, to believe that the way he was born was a curse. Anders wanted to say that magic did not spoil him. He wanted to say that the Templars taking a child from the only home he had ever known had spoiled him. That living in a tower only to see the wonders of the world through a barred window had spoiled him. That the organization who claimed to love and protect him refused to let him love another without consequences had spoiled him. 

But mostly he wanted to say that magic had not spoiled Fenris. The crimes that were committed against him were of mortal greed for power, and that the elf was not spoiled, could never be spoiled by men like Danarius. For although he wanted complete control and power over another being, no matter how he tried, he could never take away Fenris’ intrinsic value. He could not steal his fire. He wanted to say “You. It can’t spoil you.” But he didn’t. He didn’t say a word. 

Fenris’ words bounced around the caverns in an echo reflecting his fury back onto himself. “I... need to go.” 

Fenris fastened Lethendralis to his back as he fled the cave. Hawke took a few steps after him but stopped when Anders placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Be patient with him,” he murmured. “He needs time.”

Hawke frowned. “I don’t know if time will give him the peace he needs.”

Anders shrugged, his shoulders lifting slowly then dropping lifelessly. “That’s out of our control.”

“I suppose so,” Hawke grumbled, although he did not seem to believe his own words. He looked at Anders and his frown deepened, “Are you okay?”

“I’m worried about Karl,” Anders admitted. His hands were clenched white around his staff. “I sent him a letter explaining everything. He shouldn’t have come here. Why did he come here?”

“He didn’t. She lied,” Isabela said. “She looks like the sort of twisted cunt who would say anything if it kept her alive.”

Anders couldn’t disagree with her logic. Hadriana had always been a spiteful coward. Yet still, his doubts lingered. 

“Letters get lost all the time,” he mumbled to himself. “It would be just my luck.”

“If he stepped a foot into Kirkwall, Varric would know about it,” Hawke assured. “I’ll have him contact you.”

“Thank you, Hawke.”

The smile Hawke gave him was so white and brilliant that for a moment Anders forgot why he was afraid in the first place. Karl had received his letter. He would be waiting for him to return, safe and sound in their clinic. There was nothing to worry about. 

***

When Anders arrived at the mansion late that afternoon, he was totally unsurprised to find that it was empty, and yet, that didn’t erase his disappointment. 

He tore off his filthy clothes at the doorstep and headed straight for the bathroom. He avoided most of the blood and grime from the battle, but he could still feel the dark magic lingering on his skin.

He drew a hot bath, ever so thankful for dwarven plumbing, and took an hour or so to scrub any signs of battle from his body until his skin was a deep pink. He then dressed in--mostly--fresh clothes before heading to their- no, to _Fenris’_ room. But still, the elf was nowhere to be found.

Anders sighed and chewed on his lip. It was roughly four hours till nightfall and he refused to mope around the house like a forlorn poltergeist. He turned from the doorway and strode into the parlor. He fetched his coin purse that was freshly filled after looting the slavers out of his beloved--but frankly too dirty to wear--coat, and stepped out into the street. 

He’d intended to take a short walk, maybe stop by the hanged man and grab something to drink, when he noticed a familiar elvhen woman carrying a wicker basket and eying the fruit stand in the Lowtown market. His feet turned of their own accord and he found himself standing beside her. 

“Merrill, right?” 

She jumped at his voice, and her large green eyes darted to him. “Oh, Anders! You startled me. Are you shopping today too?”

The answer should have been no, but then his eye caught on a shiny green apple and an idea formed in his head. 

“I sure am,” he replied. 

He was already here, why not make a peace offering to Fenris when he returned home. He had never made a pie before, but they already had what he assumed were the ingredients for a pie at home. All he would need is a bunch of apples, brown sugar, and caramel. All three ingredients shouldn’t be too hard to find, although the caramel might dig deeper into his coin purse than he would have liked. 

“Oh, wonderful!” Merrill beamed. “Would you mind if we shopped together? Varric is always saying the merchants take advantage of me. He even convinced Fenris to come along with me a few times just to stand behind me with his arms all crossed like- well you know how he does it.”

Anders chuckled, knowing exactly what she meant. “Sure we can shop together, although I don’t think I’ll be much help.” 

The elf looked at him with a gleam in her eye. “You know what it looks like. Try acting like Fenris and you’ll be fine!” 

It took a moment before he realized she was quite serious, so he tried to make his expression look ever so cross. “How’s this?”

“You look like you’re trying to poop,” she giggled.

“Let’s leave Broody to the brooding then,” Anders chuckled. 

She beamed at him and he wondered, for the umpteenth time since meeting her, how such a sweet and somewhat naive woman would let herself be tainted by blood magic.

Merrill returned her attention to the stall and proceeded to compare two lemons which seemed to be exactly the same in shape, size, and color to Anders. However, the elf hummed to herself triumphantly and put the lemon resting in her right palm into the basket before beginning the process all over again with a different set of lemons. Anders had no such reservations, nor a keen eye for produce. He looked at the apples and saw yellow ones, red ones, and green ones. He wasn’t sure which apples were put in a pie or if it even mattered in the first place. So he decided to get five of each, just in case.

By the time Anders had selected his fourth apple, he realized he made a grave mistake. He tried to juggle them between his arms, unable to find enough space to grab a fifth apple without dropping the other four.

“Did you forget your basket?” Merrill chirped, amused by his predicament.

“I… uh, well.”

“That’s okay! We can share mine,” Merrill said as she helped Anders maneuver the apples into her basket. 

“I forget to bring mine too,” she confessed. “Although, the alienage is much closer to carry groceries compared to Hightown.”

“I suppose I’m lucky you remembered today.”

“Yes, you are!” She took one more careful survey of the fruit before turning to Anders. “Where next?”

“Uh…” Anders racked his brain. “I need caramel and sugar?”

“The bakery is at the south end… I think? Or was it west?” She pondered for a moment before shrugging and smiling. “I'm sure we’ll find it eventually.” 

Surprising himself, Anders smiled too. He felt a little more carefree around her as if his problems needn’t be problems. They paid for their fruit and Merrill offered her arm to Anders. They began weaving their way through the market. Although it was later in the day, a large throng of people still mulled around on the street. The duo was mostly ignored and Anders was struck with how completely normal and mundane it was; just two mages arm in arm buying groceries. It was absolutely and irrevocably insignificant. But that was what Anders desired: for mages to have the opportunity to live a completely boring and normal life. He hadn’t thought too deeply of his rights as a mage since moving to Tevinter. The clinic had kept both him and Justice occupied, and with slavery around every corner, the pair had not the space for much else. 

Even in Kirkwall, home to one of the most corrupt circles in Thedas, Anders found his mind occupied with other pursuits. But fearing for Karl’s fate brought all of those thoughts to the forefront of his mind. Where was he now? Was he safe? Had he been captured by Templars? The bastards would kill him.

He remembered their first night on the ship--Karl drained of mana and Anders desperately using the little magic he had left to heal a festering wound on his hip that had gone weeks without treatment. They used the first few hours to get to know each other all over again, after the many years they spent apart. They discovered that they had both tried writing letters to each other, letters that they never received. They tried to rekindle their romance on the week-long voyage, but it fell flat. Anders could never forget the awkward days that ensued afterwards, not to mention his hurt ego. When he had realized he was no longer in love with Karl, it shattered the hopeless romantic in him. He had always thought love was eternal, at least true love in that regard; and in a way he was right. Their love was eternal, it had just shifted from one form to another. He chewed on the inside of his cheek. Karl was fine. He had to be. 

Anders felt a light tug on his shoulder as Merrill dragged him to a fish stand. She purchased some salmon before they continued southward. Merrill led the way and he trailed at her side, his thoughts decidedly elsewhere.

“Have I ever mentioned I like your coat?” The little elf piped up.

Anders looked down at her. “You do?”

“It’s very lively! Like a crow in the middle of anting!”

“That’s… That’s great,” he chuckled. “Thanks, Merrill.”

“You’re welcome! I always thought that the Grey Wardens should have added feathers to their uniform. With the griffon and all. I think it would be stylish.”

Anders smirked. He had thought the same thing once upon a time. “Have you met a Warden before? Well, other than me. I don’t really count.”

“Oh, yes. Back in Ferelden. Duncan, I think his name was. Very odd man. He had a marvelous beard though. I’d never seen one before. I thought a squirrel had grabbed him by the chin!”

Anders let out a loud laugh, which he tried to muffle with his free hand. Getting out of the mansion and into the good graces of this odd little witch seemed to be the exact medicine he’d needed. 

***

By the time Fenris’ head had cleared from the swirling fog of disjointed thoughts, the sun had fallen from the sky and landed on the horizon where it slowly dipped out of sight, painting the sky orange and purple. He took a deep breath and tried to gather his surroundings. He had wandered back to Kirkwall by habit, after spending several hours roaming aimlessly on the Wounded Coast. Looking around he recognized that he was on one of the many staircases that traveled up, up, up, to Hightown. If he followed this path it wouldn’t be long until he made his way back to the mansion. 

He thought about the man who would be waiting for him. Might be waiting for him, he silently corrected himself. Their time together proved that Anders was quite the patient man, but everyone had their breaking point. 

Fenris could say with confidence that he had grown to appreciate the mage’s company. He thought Anders may have felt the same. He must have, at one point. Fenris was sure of it. Anders had called them friends with such a sincerity that left no doubt. Fenris wanted it to be true. The hollow pit in his chest grew. He needed to fix this.

His breath caught in his throat and he doubled his pace up the stairs until he nearly collapsed at the top, dragging a deep ragged breath from his lungs. He had to fix this or he would lose their carefully crafted friendship. Maybe he would even lose Hawke, the only mage who had stood by his side these past few years through every lashing and cruel word he spouted. 

He had a right to fear mages, but he would not lose any more people dear to him due to his fear. He took little comfort that in this instance, at least his cowardice wouldn’t lead to death and destruction by his own hand. He would never allow the horrid event in Seheron to repeat itself.

He would start with Hawke. He wasn’t brave enough to look Anders in the eyes yet. He headed in the direction of Hawke’s estate, mustering his courage on the walk. 

Upon his arrival, Bodhan let him into the parlor with a simple “Messere Hawke has been expecting you.”

Bodhan guided Fenris to Hawke’s personal library, a location that the elf had avoided in the past, given the option. However, as he walked in, he was pleasantly surprised to find that he recognized the shapes of the letters, even those which were written in fancy golden script down the length of the spines. 

Hawke was sprawled out on a loveseat, dressed in only a garish red robe. In one hand he held a book, in the other an empty glass. An orange orb hung above his head, illuminating the book he had been reading. He placed a ribbon between the pages before closing the cover. He swung his legs off the side of the sofa and stood, giving the dwarf at Fenris’ side a warm smile.

“Thank you, Bodhan.”

‘Of course, Messere.” He bowed his head and strode from the room, closing the large double doors behind him. There was a swift thunk of wood on wood before it was only the two of them.

“You’re late,” Hawke remarked.

“I didn’t realize we had a date.”

“You always show up here after a fight. It’s tradition.”

Fenris hummed softly. “I would like to apologize for my outburst earlier today.”

“Apology accepted.”

Fenris blinked and stumbled over his next words. “I- what?”

“I accept your apology,” Hawke clarified as he walked over to the side table to refill his glass.

“Oh,” Fenris mumbled.

“You’re a very private person and I’m sure that neither I nor my fantastically colorful imagination could even fathom all the horrors you have experienced under the hands of mages. So I understand. I may not agree, but I understand.”

“Thank you, Hawke. Your kindness continues to surprise me.”

Hawke shrugged like it was nothing. And to him it was, Fenris realized. His kind and gentle actions were free to give, and always have been.

“Have you spoken to Anders yet?” Hawke asked.

“Ah, no… not yet.”

Hawke took a sip of his whiskey before swirling it around thoughtfully. “He healed you today.” He pulled his eyes away from the glass and studied Fenris. 

“With magic,” he added. “You never let anyone use magic on you, not even me.”

Fenris sighed. Of course he would notice. Beneath all of his jokes and bravado, Hawke was eerily observant. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, Hawke. I do, I trust you with my life.”

“I know that. But I think you trust Anders with something far more precious.”

Fenris frowned, “I don’t understand.”

The corner of Hawke’s mouth quirked up. “You will.”

Fenris raised a brow, waiting for an explanation, but Hawke only sipped at his drink. The elf sighed. “I assume you are just going to keep your revelation to yourself then?”

“Yup!” Hawke grinned. 

Fenris rolled his eyes, but he couldn't keep a small smile at bay. Only a few minutes with him and he already felt the deep void in his chest turn to shallow depths. 

Hawke knocked back the rest of his drink. “It’s getting late. You should head back. I’m sure Anders is beyond worried by now.”

Fenris nodded in agreement. Only a few rays of daylight remained in the sky. If he left now, there might be a chance that he could make it just before nightfall. As he turned to leave, his eyes caught on the hundreds of books stacked high around him. The elf paused.

“Do you think you have any books that the mage would like?”

“Definitely.”

“May I… borrow one?”

“Of course.” Hawke scratched his beard before a huge smile split his face and he approached one of the bookshelves next to a large bay window. Near the bottom he pulled out an old green book and handed it to Fenris. The elf turned it around in his hand, searching for a title, but it was unmarked. 

“What is it about?”

“It has a little bit of everything really. Fencing, fighting, torture, revenge, giants, monsters, chases, escapes, true love, miracles. Anders will love it.”

Fenris brought it close to his chest. “Thank you again, Hawke.”

“Goodnight, Fenris.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I really appreciate the time and effort y'all put into keeping up with my story. Everyone’s kudos and comments over the past few months were each their own little boost to help me push through this chapter- and boy did I need those boosts! This was so difficult to write. This was only my second time writing a combat scene and since this chapter contained a LOT of fighting, I was definitely banging my head against the wall by the end of it. I hope the payoff is worth the concussion. 
> 
> If you enjoyed this chapter please feel free to subscribe, leave a kudos, or a comment saying hi! I gush over every single one!
> 
> Thanks again for reading and stay lovely!
> 
> TEVENE 101
> 
> Lupus advenit! - The wolf arrives!


End file.
